Bourn’s Edge

Barbara Davies

Mindancer Press

Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company  *  Fairfield, California

© 2010 Barbara Davies

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

978-1-934452-53-0 ebook

Library of Congress Control Number:  2010937870

Cover art

by

C.A. Casey

Mindancer Press

a division of

Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company

Fairfield, California

http://www.bedazzledink.com/mindancer

For Claudia and Casey, with thanks.

Acknowledgments

As a child, I spent many happy hours exploring the wild woods, heathland, and misty pools of Sutton Park. It’s changed considerably since my day, and long-distance research will only take a writer so far. I hope those readers who know and love the park in its present incarnation will forgive any inaccuracies.

PART 1

BOURN’S EDGE

Chapter 1

The headlights were dazzling in Cassie’s rear-view mirror.

“Full beam? What does he think he’s—?”

Crump. The collision clapped her jaws together and hurled her forward against her seat belt.

Swearing and gripping the steering wheel, she glanced over her shoulder. Whoever had rear-ended her should be slowing, preparing to get out and exchange insurance details. But a white van loomed large in her rear window—at least she thought it was a van. It was hard to make out in the glare.

Anger gave way to self-preservation. She changed up a gear and stamped her foot on the accelerator. Her car surged forward. So did the van.

This can’t be happening!

At this hour of the evening, most Brummies were eating dinner and telling their spouses about their day. On Tuesdays and Thursdays Cassie would have been home too, though only a greedy tomcat awaited her there. But today was a Wednesday and the library stayed open until seven. And, since the Armitage trial had meant taking a lot of time off lately, when Cassie’s boss asked if she would stay behind and lock up, she had agreed.

She screeched left at the next crossroads, leaving tyre marks on the road, then took a right, keeping to well-lit streets, hoping to lose her pursuer. But a glance in her rear-view mirror showed that the white van was still on her tail. Her tyres scraped along the kerb, and she corrected her steering before looking in her mirror again.

It was hard to make out the man’s face against the dazzle, and she had to squint. He wore his hat, an unflattering knitted affair, pulled low, but she could make out some of his features. Although it was a mirror image, there was something about that broken nose and snaggle-toothed grin. She tried to recall where she had seen him before.

Crump.

The screech of tortured metal set her teeth on edge, and it was several terrifying seconds before her tyres regained traction. Her heart was racing, and she felt sick. The little Toyota wasn’t built to take this kind of punishment. Lord knows what the boot must look like.

“He’s trying to kill me!”

The idea had seemed fantastic until she gave voice to it. Now it became concrete, and as it did so, her memory’s floodgates opened. She saw a business-suited Nick Armitage standing in the dock, hands clasped around his ample belly, smiling as, at his counsel’s prompting, he recast events in a more flattering light. It wasn’t his fault his men had gone further than instructed, was it? As soon as he had found out, he had reined them in. But he was a businessman, and when people fell behind with their rent . . . He gave a baffled shrug and an it’s-all-been-a-terrible-misunderstanding smile. And sitting in the Crown Court’s public gallery throughout his testimony was the white van’s driver, nodding encouragement and grinning.

He works for Armitage.

The police had told Cassie that the landlord’s threats as he was taken down to the cells were mere posturing, nothing to worry about. She had had her doubts. There was a reason most of Armitage’s tenants had been too scared to testify. His bullyboys had left many with black eyes, broken arms, and smashed furniture.

She had never had any problems in her own dealings with Armitage, but she’d sensed his jovial exterior was a mask, noticed how that perfect smile never quite reached his eyes. As soon as she could find alternative accommodation, she moved out of the dump he claimed was a luxury flat. Then had come the court case, and the police had come looking for her and asked her to testify.

It looked like her instincts about his threats had been right. Her nausea increased, and she clenched her jaws and tried not to panic.

Night was falling, and the lights were coming on in many of the houses on either side of the road. Should she bang on one of those front doors and beg for sanctuary? Ahead of her, the traffic lights turned red. She hunched her shoulders and sailed through. A car coming from her right screeched to a halt, skidding several yards. Its horn blared.

“Sorry.” The van ignored the lights too. “Damn!”

Cassie groped in her jacket pocket for her phone. She would ring 999 and report the number plate. But the brief flare of hope faded as she saw that the numbers were covered with mud. I’ll ring the police anyway.

Crump.

Her phone sailed into the foot well.

Changing up yet another gear, she felt the beginnings of despair. At this speed she was barely in control, her careering progress punctuated by shouts from pedestrians and honks from other drivers. If the van didn’t get her, an accident soon would. She glanced in her mirror, though she knew it was pointless, and blinked in surprise. Smoke was pouring from the white van’s bonnet, which had acquired a dent, and it was slowing.

As she watched, the smoke became flames, and the door opened and the driver spilled out. “Serves you right, you bastard!”

Light-headed with relief, Cassie drove away.

Once the van had receded into the distance she eased down to a more manageable speed, took a right, then a left, then another right, and pulled over to the kerb. She left the engine idling while she got her bearings—this part of Birmingham was unfamiliar.

Reaction set in. Her head throbbed, and she felt clammy. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking and her thoughts were in a perpetual loop. If he tried to kill me once, he’ll try again. What am I going to do? they kept repeating. Until at last the answer came. Ask for protection.

Cassie fumbled in the foot well for the phone then paused. Ringing 999 no longer seemed appropriate, but she didn’t have the number of the police officer in charge of the Armitage case with her. Slipping the phone into her pocket, she resolved to ring him when she got home.

But what if he doesn’t believe me? At least this time the damage to her car would be some kind of evidence. Which reminded her . . .

She got out and walked round to the rear of her car. The sight that greeted her made her suck in her breath. The bumper was missing, and without its protection the boot had taken a terrible battering. The depth of the gouges and the extent of the dents shocked her. She tried to open the boot, but it was jammed shut. The shaking in her hands worsened, and she stuffed them in her pockets and returned to the driver’s seat.

There must be a witness protection scheme. But will they put me on it? Do I want to be on it? She could imagine the upheaval: changing her name, leaving behind all that was near and dear. And what do I do until then? Go somewhere Armitage can’t find me? Where? And what about my job, and Louise’s birthday party? And going to the pictures with Justin and Danny and to Mum and Dad’s for Sunday lunch? And then there’s Murphy . . .

Cassie’s head ached. She took several deep breaths of car-freshener-scented air and tried to regain control.

What’s more important: letting people down or staying alive?

She could see a street name a little further down the road. She found it on the satnav and plotted the shortest route back to her flat, then set off. Armitage’s men might be lying in wait but she must risk it. Odds are the driver of the white van won’t have told him he failed yet.

Cassie turned left at the next T-junction then right at a crossroads, then drove past a cinema showing the film she was due to see with her friends tomorrow. The queuing cinemagoers drew a wistful glance. Only that morning, she had been like them: ordinary, carefree, with a future stretching out ahead of her that promised to be routine, verging on the humdrum. Now she had no idea what lay in store.

NIGHT HAD FALLEN a couple of hours ago, but that was no obstacle to one of the Fae, whose night vision was as keen as any owl’s. Tarian shifted her weight from one hip to the other and rested her forearms on the spear’s crossbar. She preferred to hunt under cover of darkness. No mortals were about, and there was less chance of awkward questions.

An owl screeched in the distance, then came the bark of a dog fox calling his vixen. That rustling from the hazel copse to her left was a badger, going about its business. The woodland animals were more accepting of her presence than the owner of Bourn Forest would be. He’d accuse her of poaching, though she’d like to see him explain how she came by meat from beasts that no longer lived in his wood, on this side of the boundary at least.

She shifted her attention back to the eight-foot gap between the ancient oak tree and the ash. It shimmered like a heat haze and a wave of homesickness swept over her. Fool! She’d been here almost two years, and her dreams were still full of Faerie.

With a sigh, Tarian resumed her position beneath the beech tree, whose fresh green leaves had begun to unfurl just this week. Prepared for a long wait, she submerged herself in the sights and the sounds of the forest . . .

After a time, she had no idea how long, something changed, bringing her back to her surroundings. She stretched out the kinks and leaned forward. Was that the baying of hounds in the distance, getting closer by the second? She smiled.

What have you found me? I hope it’s not too large. Last time, Anwar and Drysi had brought her a massive stag, and it had taken her several trips to carry the dismembered carcass home. She raised her spear and braced herself.

One moment the gap between oak and ash was empty, the next it wasn’t. A wild boar, of a type not seen in England’s forests for centuries, came hurtling across the boundary, snorting and foaming at the mouth. In spite of the two wolfhounds at its heels, the boar checked when it saw Tarian, or rather smelled her, for boars have poor eyesight. She had time only to register it was a male, and the vicious curving tusks sprouting from top and bottom jaws meant it must be about three years old, before it gave another snort, dropped its bristly head, and charged straight at her.

Heart pumping, a snarl on her lips, she lunged, putting her whole weight behind the thrust. The spear took the squealing animal high in the chest. It was a fatal blow, and both knew it, but rather than pulling free, the boar threw itself at her, impaling itself even more. Over the razor-sharp point it forced its massive bulk, heaving itself inch by inch along the shaft. The rank smell of boar invaded her nostrils, and the squirming weight threatened to tear the spear from her grip. She clenched her jaw and hung on until, with a snort that was equal parts pain, frustration, and exhaustion, the boar halted at the cross guard. It hung there shivering and panting.

“You fought well, boar. Let me speed your passing.”

A single expert slash with the knife from her belt cut its throat. Blood spurted steaming onto the forest floor and the baleful gleam in its eyes dulled, became a sightless stare. Then the boar gave one final shiver, and went limp. Tarian let spear and prey fall to the forest floor and straightened in relief.

Her dogs bounded over, eager to receive praise. She called them her good dogs and, when they nosed at the bloodstained carcass, pushed them away with her foot. Their indignant expressions made her laugh.

Tarian bent to cut her spear free, before squatting and setting about the messy business of gutting the boar. The dogs sat on their haunches, tongues lolling, alert for any morsels that might come their way.

Chapter 2

Dawn couldn’t be far off.

There had been a lot for Cassie to do before leaving her flat. The most urgent task was to ring the police, but a bored desk sergeant told her that DI Philips, liaison officer on the Armitage case, was on holiday, and his deputy, DS Edlin wouldn’t be in until nine a.m. tomorrow. When she asked what she should do in the meantime, he could offer no useful suggestions. She was on her own, and she couldn’t stay here. It would be the first place Armitage looked.

By then, her miaowing tomcat had put in his request for supper. She opened a sachet of cat food. Normally she found the smell appetising, but tonight, it turned her stomach. Then she popped next door to ask her neighbour if she would look after Murphy. Arrangements for his care made, she focussed on herself.

First: money. She nipped down to the nearest bank’s hole in the wall and withdrew as much cash as the machine would let her. Next: supplies. She pulled out her travel bag and set about filling it. Clothes, underwear, shoes, nighties, toiletries, books to read, food. It was difficult to anticipate what she might need, though, especially as she didn’t know where she was going or for how long. She pursed her lips and added another box of tampons. When she’d finished packing, she put the now heavy travel bag by the front door.

Emails let Louise know Cassie wouldn’t be able to make her birthday party after all and told Danny and Justin that their cinema trip was off. Cassie didn’t go into detail, just said she had to leave town for a while. She unplugged her computer and wished it were a laptop so she could take it with her. Ah well.

The Library had an answering machine, so she left a message on it for her boss. It crossed her mind that she had messed him around so much lately, her job might not be waiting for her when she got back. If she got back. Oh don’t be such a pessimist.

There was no way to avoid speaking to her parents. Bracing herself, she dialled their number. When her father answered, she told him she wouldn’t be able to make lunch this Sunday, and why. As she had expected, the news left him aghast.

“What do you mean you can’t tell us where you’re going or for how long?” His voice rose in alarm, and she could hear her mother making worried-sounding noises in the background.

“How can I tell you, when I don’t know myself? Sorry, Dad. It’s probably better that you don’t know anyway. Less risk to you and Mum.”

“It’s that Armitage fellow, isn’t it? Nasty piece of work. I told you no good would come of testifying against him.”

She sucked in her breath. “Some good did come of it, Dad. He’s in Winson Green.”

“And my daughter’s in fear for her life. Doesn’t seem like a fair exchange to me.”

Cutting the conversation short, she told her parents she loved them and would be in touch again as soon as she could, and rang off. Then she grabbed her travel bag and pulled her flat door closed behind her. The lock snicked shut with an air of finality, cutting off Murphy’s last indignant miaow. Her heart sank, and she wondered when she would ever see her home or her cat again.

Since then she had been driving, ignoring the satnav and picking her route on a whim. She had chosen winding B roads heading west in the main, which made the going slow. If she didn’t know where she was going, Armitage couldn’t either—at least, that was the theory. Sleepy villages comprising a pub and a cluster of houses were the norm. The last town of any size had been Ludlow, its lamp-lit streets deserted apart from the odd fox or hedgehog. She didn’t think she had crossed the border yet but several signposts to Offa’s Dyke meant it couldn’t be far.

They called this part of England the Welsh Marches. Marshes, more like. She had lost count of the number of bridges she had driven across, their rivers rain-swollen, and for the last hour the windscreen wipers had been working flat out. Shropshire was supposed to have beautiful scenery, but she had seen little sign of it so far. Perhaps when the sun came up . . .

The landscape was becoming increasingly hilly, the engine beginning to labour. She changed down a gear and suppressed another yawn. The rhythmic thump of the wipers was hypnotic, but she preferred it to the phone-in shows that were all she could find on the radio at this hour.

In the hope the night air might keep her alert she opened the window. She would have to stop soon, find a place to stay, get the car repaired. Those were her priorities. Oh, and ring the police again, talk to this DS Edlin.

The B road climbed. Woods closed in on either side, until it was like driving through a tunnel. Cassie was beginning to think she would never reach the end of it, when all at once the trees thinned, and she emerged into the open once more. The rain had stopped, and she turned off the wipers.

Without warning, the road went into a series of hairpin bends, following the curve of the hill, and she had her work cut out. At last the road straightened, and she found she had somehow got turned around and was facing east. Because that glimmer of light on the horizon must be the sun, mustn’t it?

It was. Slowly the rim of red became an orange segment, then a yellow-ochre semicircle, and the dim, grey outlines of her surroundings changed, became suffused with colour. As the light intensified birdsong flooded through her open window, and the strange shapes up ahead became houses with chimney pots and TV aerials, and, sprouting from their midst, a church spire.

“Bourn’s Edge,” proclaimed the sign at the side of the road. She slowed and peered at the houses on either side. There must be somewhere to stay.

She was beginning to think she was out of luck when she spotted the B & B sign. It was in the downstairs front window of a cosy-looking house with a fenced front garden in which sat an odd scarecrow-like figure on a wooden bench. The red letters below the sign spelled out “Vacancy.”

With a feeling of relief, Cassie parked outside the front gate. She undid her seat belt and was about to get out when a thought struck her. A quick check of her watch confirmed it was much too early to knock at the front door and ask for a room. So with a sigh, she pushed back the driver’s seat as far as it would go, made herself comfortable, and closed her eyes.

Adrenalin wouldn’t let her sleep. She tried to calm her thoughts, but images of the white van growing larger in her rear-view window kept surfacing. Frustrated, she took several calming breaths and focussed instead on that instant when the rising sun had breathed life and colour into the wooded slopes around her. And moments later, she was asleep.

THE PRISON GUARD checked he was unobserved before stepping into the cell. “Here you are, Mr Armitage,” he murmured. “Make sure you hide these somewhere safe.” He handed Armitage a mobile phone and a charger.

Armitage accepted them with a grin. All phone calls were supposed to be monitored by the prison authorities, but with this he could bypass them. “Good man.”

“Anything else I can do for you?” The guard’s eyes were greedy. Evidently the taste of money had left him wanting more.

Armitage glanced round the cramped cell, with its basin, toilet, and modesty screen, tiny TV, and electric kettle with a loose connection. Of the two narrow beds, only one showed signs of use. In a prison filled to bursting point, with two beds crammed into cells designed for one, sole occupation was an unheard of luxury. But Armitage had soon persuaded the other inmate round to his way of thinking—he was now an in-patient in the Health Care Centre.

“I suppose getting me out of here’s out of the question?”

“’Fraid so.” The guard’s grin became rueful.

“Pity. Well then. I’ll let you know.”

“Righto, Mr. Armitage.”

When the guard had gone, locking the cell door behind him, Armitage dialled his mistress. There was no reply.

He checked his watch. She should be up by now. Maybe she stayed somewhere else last night. Bitch! If she thinks she can start seeing someone else . . .

He rang another number he knew off by heart. A muffled voice answered. From the sound of it, Rigby was in the middle of breakfast.

“Rigby? No, don’t talk. I’m paying.” Armitage intended to keep the conversation short but not sweet. “Listen. Get someone round to Tracey’s pronto. She’s not answering her phone. I expect her to be there, waiting. Give her a good slapping to make the point, okay?”

He shifted to the next item on his mental agenda. “Now, the Lewis girl. What’s the news?” His grin of anticipation faded. “What?” He listened to Rigby’s excuses with growing disbelief. “The van’s a write-off? What am I, made of money?” Rigby didn’t seem to know an answer wasn’t required. He promised to do better next time. “You’d damned well better.”

Armitage thought for a moment. “You’ve got her home address?” The answer was in the affirmative, but it seemed Rigby had already been there and found signs that she’d fled. “Fuck!” The little bitch must know he was after her. Would she go to the police? It wouldn’t do her much good. And her fear would make the chase all the sweeter.

Rigby asked if he was still there.

“Yeah. Just thinking. Find out who her friends and family are, then give Parsons their details.” The request to bring in the Private Detective puzzled Rigby. Armitage rolled his eyes. “Use your bloody loaf, man. He’s got contacts at all the phone companies. She’s bound to ring people sooner or later, and when she does we’ve got her.”

Sounds of comprehension met this, and he grunted. “I’ll ring you in a couple of days for an update. In the meantime, don’t contact me on this number. Okay?”

But this was Rigby they were talking about. So after he had rung off, Armitage switched off the phone, just to be sure.

Chapter 3

Tarian thrust her sword up under her opponent’s ribcage and guided it towards his heart. As his sword fell to the grassy sward, he stared at her with shocked eyes. She gave the blade one final twist and withdrew it. Clasping his abdomen with both hands, he slumped to his knees, then on to his face.

She held her bloody blade high. “Take heed, enemies of the Queen,” she roared “Or this will be your fate too.”

The watching nobles let out a cheer, then Mab herself thrust them aside and strolled towards Tarian.

“Well done, as always, my champion,” she called, her smile lascivious. A kill always excited the Queen of the Fae. “We must celebrate your victory. The rest of you, leave me.” She waved a lazy hand in dismissal.

Servants flung the corpse into a cart and drove it away for healing. Chattering nobles mounted their horses and rode off after it. Only Tarian and Mab’s mounts remained, tethered to a tree. Tarian’s mare nickered, dropped its head, and began to crop the grass.

Mab halted in front of Tarian and, careless of her blood-spattered tunic, pulled her close. She kissed Tarian hard enough to bruise her lips and pulled her down onto the grass . . .

Tarian gasped, opened her eyes, and sat up. Her heart slowed as she took in the familiar surroundings of her bedroom.

When she had first bought the house on the edge of Bourn Forest, the roof was in need of repair, and what little furniture it contained was riddled with worm. She had saved what she could and burned the rest, before refurbishing and refurnishing the place. Most of the furniture came from a local auction house, and none of the pieces matched. It was a far cry from Mab’s palace, where the bedroom assigned to the Queen’s champion sported luxurious wall hangings, ornately carved furnishings, and a four-poster bed fit for the Queen to share whenever the whim took her.

Tarian much preferred her new abode, the result of hard work not magic, if you discounted the money she’d used to buy it in the first place.

It was nine a.m.

That’s what happens when you hunt late at night. You oversleep and dream of Faerie.

She washed, dressed, and went downstairs. After a boisterous greeting from Anwar and Drysi, she unlocked the back door. While they bounded round the back garden and relieved themselves, she set about making breakfast. The dogs could finish off the last of the venison, which was past its best. For herself she made porridge.

She ate while reading the local free paper and planned her day. She would have to scald and scrape the boar today, then joint it—an arduous task but one that could not be shirked. As for painting . . . She glanced out the kitchen window. The light was good this morning. She would work on the painting she had started yesterday.

Something snagged her attention, and she stood and went to the window. A hawthorn tree overlooked her back garden, and a huge black bird was sitting on the top branch, its gaze fixed on her house. It couldn’t be coincidence that the same crow had been watching her three days in a row, could it?

She extended her senses and found, as she had feared, that the big black bird was much more than that. One of Mab’s creatures.

Tarian went through to the hall, took down the short bow and quiver of arrows that hung on the wall, and carried them out into the back garden. The crow watched her, a gleam in its beady eyes, its head cocked to one side.

“Are you spying on me?” she shouted.

It cawed, a harsh mocking sound that set her teeth on edge, then fluffed its feathers and let them settle.

She nocked an arrow on her bowstring. “Has Mab told you of my prowess at archery?” The bird danced along the branch a little way before settling again. “I see that she has.”

It cawed at her again and began to preen.

“Tell your mistress,” called Tarian, “that I don’t take kindly to being spied upon.” She raised the bow, which was deceptively powerful for its size, and drew it to its full extent. “Remind her that she promised not to meddle in my affairs as long as I stayed out of Faerie. Spying counts as meddling.”

With that, she released her arrow. It sped through the spot where a second before the crow had perched. Frustrated, she searched for it and found it sitting on a lower branch, eyes alight with mischief. She reached for another arrow.

This time the crow didn’t wait for Tarian to shoot. It launched itself off the branch and flapped towards her. She half expected it to try to peck out her eyes but it circled above her, wings flapping, dipping lazily until it was almost within her grasp before soaring skywards again. It was taunting her.

Enough of this.

In one smooth motion, Tarian nocked the arrow, drew, and shot. But the crow had already wheeled away and was heading towards the trees, and her arrow fell short.

“I will give her your message,” came its guttural croak. Then it vanished into the forest.

“THIS WOULD BE your room.” The landlady, a middle-aged, motherly woman with brown curls, laughter lines, and a smudge of flour on her right cheek, stepped aside to allow Cassie past. “Toilet and shower are through there.”

She pointed to a door, and Cassie put down her travel bag and popped her head round it. The little lemon-scented bathroom was spotless, the white towels on the handrail freshly laundered. She withdrew and gave the bedroom the once over.

It was a bit on the small side, the double bed taking up most of the space, and a small armchair hogging what remained, but from what she could see there was sufficient storage space for her needs. A shelf housed an electric kettle and some cups, saucers, and sachets of instant coffee, creamer, and sugar. And on one of the two occasional tables sat a TV/DVD player.

“It’s very nice, Mrs. Hayward. I’ll take it.”

“Good.” The lines round the landlady’s eyes deepened as she smiled. “Call me Liz.” She held out a hand.

“Cassie Lewis. Call me Cassie.”

They shook hands. Liz had a powerful grip. Cassie could picture her making her Victoria Sponges the old-fashioned way.

“As it’s April, you get my out of season rate,” continued Liz, straightening the duvet, which sported cheerful scarlet poppies. “Stay three nights in a row, I throw in the fourth night free. You get your own front door key. There are only two house rules: no pets and no smoking. If you need any more supplies,” she pointed to the sachets, “just ask.” She turned to face Cassie. “How long are you planning on staying?”

“Um.” Cassie shifted. “I’m not sure. Could we start off with a week? Would that be all right?”

“Fine with me, dear.” Liz gave her a reassuring smile. “Full English breakfast included, of course.” She paused and looked a question. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” Cassie shook her head. “Will you be wanting supper? I do a main course and dessert for twelve pounds.”

“Please.”

“Plain cooking, I’m afraid. If you want wine, you’ll have to provide your own.”

“That’s okay.”

“I can do you a packed lunch too, if you’d like. A sandwich, crisps, cake, and fruit. Three pounds fifty I charge for that.”

Cassie considered. Her cash would only stretch so far. “No thanks. I’ll get myself something from the shop. There’s a post office store further along the road, isn’t there?”

“Yes. But don’t leave it too late. Today’s early closing.”

Do they still do that? wondered Cassie. Evidently in Bourn’s Edge they did.

It became Liz’s turn to look awkward. “I’m afraid I’ll need a cash deposit.” She fiddled with her thumbnail. “£70 should be enough.”

“Of course. My money’s in my luggage. Will it be all right if I bring it down when I’ve unpacked?”

Liz nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready. I’m baking.” That explained the flour. “I’ll leave you to get settled then.” With a last smile, Liz closed the door behind her.

Cassie sat on the bed and gave it an experimental bounce, then leaned back against the headboard and let her shoulders relax. She yawned. Her eyes felt gritty, her mouth stale. Still, she had a roof over her head and main meals for a week. It was a start.

She unpacked, put away her things, and stuffed the landlady’s deposit in the back pocket of her jeans. Then she wandered over to the window. From this angle, the top of the scarecrow’s head was visible. His ears stuck out, and he had a bald patch. Odd thing to have in your front garden. She’d have to ask Liz about it.

Cassie’s eyes tracked the short path to the front gate and to the car parked outside. Daylight revealed the full extent of the damage. She made a mental note to ask Liz for the whereabouts of the nearest garage. Later, though. She didn’t feel up to that at the moment. She didn’t feel up to ringing the police either, though she must. In fact she didn’t feel up to anything much except gazing out, first at the houses on the other side of the road, then at the backdrop formed by the hills on the far side of the valley. It was beautiful here, quiet, and unreal.

Am I safe? Time would tell.

She leaned her back against the windowsill and studied the room that would be hers for the next few days. The bed looked inviting, so she crossed to it, lay down on its red poppies, and closed her eyes.

Just for a little while.

Cassie woke from a nightmare in which a white van had just shunted her car off the edge of a ravine, and she was plummeting to her death. Her skin felt clammy and a headache threatened. She cursed herself for dozing off during the day—it never suited her.

With a groan, she went into the bathroom. She splashed her face with water, combed the tangles from her hair, and filled the kettle from the cold tap. Once the water had boiled, she sat in the little armchair sipping instant coffee. The caffeine kicked in, making her feel more human, and she set down the empty cup and saucer with a sigh of relief.

Outside, the light had shifted and brightened. A glance at her watch showed her two hours had elapsed. She got to her feet and patted her pocket to make sure the roll of banknotes was still there. Liz Hayward would be wondering what had happened to her money. She set off downstairs to give it to her.

TARIAN FLUNG DOWN her palette and paintbrush and stepped back from the easel. Everything that could go wrong this morning had. She’d run out of retarder medium, and the half-gallon jar of cobalt blue was almost empty. How could she have let her supplies run so low without noticing? She scowled at the canvas. Her usual delicacy of touch had deserted her. She couldn’t get the right effect, no matter what she tried. The forest scene refused to come to life and the horses looked like something a child might have drawn. Drysi could have done better with a paintbrush strapped to her paw.

Ever since she’d chased off the crow she had felt on edge, the way she sometimes did before a thunderstorm. But the patch of sky visible through her studio window was a clear blue. She tried to discount the feeling of pressure and unease, but deep down, she knew what it was. Something, or someone, was coming. Something that would turn her life upside down.

The knock at her back door was loud enough to be audible in the studio. It set off the dogs, who started whining and yelping. They must know the caller, whoever it was. She put her brush to soak in a jar of water and hurried through to the kitchen.

“Stop that.”

The dogs quietened and sank to their haunches.

The knock came again. Anyone from the village would have used her front door. She extended her senses and felt the unmistakeable presence of one of the Fae. Bracing herself, she lifted the latch.

“Einion.” It was the last person she had expected. He wore his hair tied back in a ponytail now. “You’ve changed your hair.”

“You’ve changed your clothes” He gestured at her sweatshirt and jeans. For a moment they grinned at one another, then he continued, “Are you going to invite me in?”

She glanced past him to the hawthorn tree, below which his horse was tethered, but there was no sign of the crow. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether Mab sent you.”

He looked amused rather than offended. Both knew his loyalty lay with the Queen and always would. “I’m here as a friend.”

“Come in, friend.” She stepped back.

Ducking his head to avoid the lintel—the forester’s house had been built for mortals and while Tarian had few problems, Einion was a head taller than she was—he stepped inside. While the dogs greeted him, tails wagging, he took in the shabby kitchen with a glance and a raised eyebrow but made no other comment. He took off his gloves and petted the dogs. They responded by licking his fingers. After a few seconds, Tarian called them off and sent them to their baskets.

Einion straightened, pocketed his gloves, and turned to her, his expression serious. “What made you think Mab had sent me?”

“Her spies have been watching me for three days in a row.”

“Then the news I bring will come as no surprise.”

Her heart sank. “Go on.” She gestured to one of the kitchen chairs and took another herself.

Chair legs scraped on the tiles as he sat. “Mab’s bored with her current champion. She wants a change.”

Tarian snorted. “I’m surprised Cadel held her interest as long. There’s not much between his ears.”

“What’s between his legs makes up for it,” said Einion. “Or so they tell me.”

Tarian grunted. “And?”

“She wants you back.”

“Ah.”

The only sound in the kitchen was the panting of the dogs and an occasional soft crackle from the boar roasting in the Aga’s oven. From the back garden came the trill of a blackbird.

“What are you going to do?” asked Einion at last.

“Nothing. Mab gave me her word. I haven’t broken our agreement, and neither will she.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure.”

She stood up, irritated. “Moon and stars! I thought we’d been through all this, Einion. She knows I no longer desire to be her champion. She exiled me for it.”

“Since when has anyone else’s desire concerned Mab?” Loyalty had never blinded him to the Queen’s shortcomings.

“It’s done with. Over.” Tarian began to pace. “She knows that.”

“Are you sure?” She turned to him in surprise. He shrugged. “Perhaps she knows you better than you know yourself. You can’t tell me this”—he gestured at her surroundings, at the dozing wolfhounds—“is enough. Not after the way things used to be.”

“I can.” She glared at him. “Because it is.”

His eyebrows rose. “Saying it is doesn’t make it so. Come now, Tarian. Be honest with an old friend. Don’t you miss it? The excitement, the splendour? The balls and tournaments? Having the Queen look with favour on you?”

“No. And I don’t miss the blood on my hands either.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe.”

“Good for you. But don’t tell me you’re not lonely. That you don’t miss the company of an equal.”

It was true that her days were often long and empty, for all she tried to fill them with her dogs and her paintings. She glared at him. He had always been able to spot where she was most vulnerable. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.” He gave her a knowing look. “Admit it, Tarian. You were born to be the Queen’s champion. Swallow your pride, and your anger, and come home while Mab’s feeling merciful.”

She shook her head. “This is my home now.”

“Among these puny creatures with their petty concerns?”

“Mortals aren’t as puny or petty as you think, Einion. I’ve got to know them, and I find them . . . refreshing. They still have compassion. They help each other.”

Her answer seemed to concern him. “There’s no future in such attachments, Tarian.” He held her gaze. “Mortals live but mayfly lives. Could you watch one grow old and die? You grieve when one of your dogs dies.”

“I don’t know.” She made one final effort to explain. “But don’t you see? If things had continued the way they were, I would have become another Mab, thought nothing of using anyone for my own amusement.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then you don’t know me as well as you think.” She sighed. “The truth is I was tired of it. So tired that if the Queen hadn’t offered me exile, I would have welcomed my unmaking.”

That seemed to shock him, and he was quiet for a while, perhaps remembering when Mab had used the power that was hers alone. An unmaking was never pretty. A shiver ran down Tarian’s spine as she remembered the last one she had witnessed. At Mab’s gesture, the Fae’s body had collapsed in on itself like an empty wineskin.

“So,” said Einion at last. “What will you do now?”

She was glad he had given up trying to convince her to return. “What I’ve been doing.”

“They told me you had become an artist. I didn’t believe them.”

“Believe it. It’s honest work, and I’m good at it. Well, except for today, for some reason.”

“But will you be happy?”

“Happier than if I came back.”

“Very well.” He stood up, stretched the stiffness from his shoulders, and pulled on his gloves. “My apologies if I upset you, Tarian. I have your best interests at heart.”

She nodded.

He pulled her into a loose embrace and pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Now you know Mab’s intentions. The rest is up to you.”

Chapter 4

“Blimey!” The garage owner, whose name was Mike and whose spiky haircut and acne made him look seventeen though he must be older, wiped his hands on an oily rag and frowned at the damaged boot.

“You should see the other fellow,” joked Cassie, remembering the smoke and flames rising from the white van’s bonnet.

“I’ll have to order a new bumper from Ludlow—that could take a week. As for getting those dents out, you’re looking at a solid morning’s work.” He sucked his teeth. “I’m afraid it’s going to cost you.”

Cassie sighed. “Do what you have to. I’m staying at the B & B.”

“Liz Hayward’s place?” She nodded. “Righto. Leave your car with me, Miss Lewis, and I’ll give Liz a bell when it’s ready. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She gave Mike her car keys and set off walking back down through the village to the B & B. Stranded in Bourn’s Edge for a week. Still, it could be worse.

The church, which was quite old, judging by the shabby state of its spire, shared a little car park with the church hall next door. In it stood a scarecrow wearing a dog collar and crucifix, his hand raised in benediction.

Cassie halted and stared. What is it with these scarecrows?

A middle-aged man, sporting the same bad haircut and unkempt beard as the Archbishop of Canterbury, emerged from the church porch. He was wearing a dog collar. Cassie snorted at the striking resemblance between the scarecrow and the vicar, for the man was clearly that. He called over his shoulder to someone inside the porch and threw Cassie a distracted smile as he walked past her.

A few more paces took Cassie past the GP’s surgery and a little hardware shop where her Dad could have spent several enjoyable hours browsing. A splash of colour caught her eye, and she found herself peering in the window of an art shop cum gallery. Several of the paintings were hunting scenes by an artist who signed himself “Tarian.” Odd how the horses had been painted true to life yet everything else seemed distorted. The dogs were too large, and the trees and spear-carrying riders looked oddly elongated. She shrugged and continued on, the hollow feeling in her stomach propelling her across the road, past the pub, to the post office store.

The bell above the door tinkled as she pushed her way inside. The little shop was divided into two. The postmistress was in the post office half, behind the grille, weighing a parcel for a customer. She looked up, smiled at Cassie, and pointed.

“Baskets are over there.”

Cassie smiled her thanks, grabbed a shopping basket, and began to peruse the crowded shelves in the other half of the shop.

Chicken and mushroom pot noodles? Perhaps not. The bell over the door tinkled, and the postmistress called out a greeting. Weetabix. Hm. There are sachets of sugar in my room. If I were to buy some fresh milk . . .

A shadow fell over her, and she turned to find the postmistress standing behind her and the shop now empty.

“You’ll be that Cassie Lewis who’s staying with Liz Hayward.” The young woman’s bright eyes and cheeky manner reminding Cassie of a robin. “Word gets around.” She scanned the contents of Cassie’s basket: a tin of corned beef, a Kit Kat, a packet of salted peanuts, and an apple. “Didn’t go for Liz’s packed lunch, eh? Can’t say I blame you. Bread’s over there.” She pointed to a shelf of pre-sliced loaves.

“Thank you. I was looking for those.” Cassie popped a wholemeal loaf in her basket, added a packet of butter from the chilled food cabinet, and, for something to read, a copy of The Guardian.

“If you ever get peckish,” said the postmistress, “the Green Man does decent pub grub.”

“Thanks. That’s worth knowing.”

“I’m Cath, by the way. What brings you to Bourn’s Edge in the off season?”

“Just passing through. Seemed as good a place as any to stop while I get my car fixed.”

“I heard you’d been in an accident.” Cath glanced at the basket. “That your lot?” Cassie nodded and made her way to the counter.

While Cath rang up her purchases, she looked around the little shop and saw a corkboard with notices and adverts pinned to it. She went to investigate. The “Bring and Buy” at the church hall that afternoon might be worth going to—it would give her something to do, and, in her experience, such events sold great homemade cakes. Then an announcement about a Scarecrow Contest, to be judged this Saturday by the vicar, caught her attention.

“Oh, so that’s why.”

Cath followed the direction of her gaze. “Why there are scarecrows all over the village, you mean?” She laughed. “Tradition. Can’t remember who started it or when, but we do it every year. To raise funds for the church spire.” She rang up the last item. “It’s ten pence for a carrier bag, I’m afraid. Would you like one?”

Cassie nodded and pulled out a ten-pound note. While Cath counted out her change, a thought struck her, and she glanced back towards the corkboard with its “for sale” and “wanted” ads. If this Armitage business were to go on for any length of time . . .

“If I wanted to rent a room in Bourn’s Edge for a few months, Cath—somewhere cheaper than the B & B—is there anywhere?”

The postmistress pursed her lips. “Not that I know of. But someone might be prepared to rent out a room for a short while if you asked them nicely. Tarian Brangwen, for example. She’s got that house up by the forest. It’s more space than she needs. ’Course, she’s a bit of a loner, and there are those two lolloping, smelly dogs of hers. But you never know until you ask, do you?”

“Tarian.” Cassie frowned. “Isn’t that the signature on those paintings in the art shop window?”

Cath beamed. “Fancy you spotting that. Yes. Same person. She’s an artist. Pretty good too, they tell me, though her stuff’s not to my taste. Can’t do people,” she confided. “Paints them all a bit on the tall side. But what can you expect? She’s a bit on the tall side herself.” She laughed.

“And she lives where? By the forest, you said?”

“Strictly speaking we all do. They cleared Bourn Forest to make way for the village. But there’s still some of the original left, and Tarian’s place is right next to it.” Cath pointed back the way Cassie had just come. “Keep going uphill, past Mike’s garage—you know where that is, don’t you?—for a quarter of a mile. It’s on its own. If you come to the stile and the public footpath, that means you’ve gone past it.”

AFTER A LUNCH of bread and cheese, Tarian strode down the hill towards the village, Anwar and Drysi bounding at her heels. The landscape she had finished last week and framed yesterday was wrapped in brown paper and string and tucked under one arm. She hoped Bryan in the art shop would be able to sell it for her.

There was no point in worrying about Einion’s unexpected visit or the news he had brought. What would happen would happen, and she would deal with it when it did. For now, she enjoyed the stretch of muscles cramped from standing at her easel too long and the feel of the Spring sunshine on her face.

“Afternoon, Ms. Brangwen,” came a man’s voice out of nowhere.

Puzzled, she slowed. A spiky-haired head popped up from behind a small, blue car with a battered boot. Mike waved at her. His cheeks were, as always, streaked with oil.

“Afternoon.” She waved back and picked up the pace once more.

A scarecrow had appeared in the Green Man’s car park—a witch, by the look of her. That made thirty-two entries by Tarian’s reckoning. The Rev. Simon Wright would have his work cut out choosing a winner this year.

The man himself was crossing the road towards the church hall, that cursed cross of his banging against his chest. Low growls made her glance at Anwar and Drysi—they looked ready to launch themselves across the road at him. She called them to heel, and the vicar threw her a nervous smile of thanks before fleeing indoors.

Tarian gave a mirthless grin. From their first meeting it had been clear the vicar felt uneasy about her, and also that such a lack of charity without an obvious cause mortified him. But she bore the man no ill will. Did he but know it, his reaction was instinctive. The Church’s followers had been at odds with Tarian’s kind for millennia. What she did resent was that cross. Though the legends had got it wrong about cold iron’s lethality to the Fae, it set her teeth on edge.

Anwar nudged her thigh, and Drysi made a sound in the back of her throat. From the prick of their ears and furious tail wagging, something had caught the dogs’ interest. She looked up and saw a short woman in a suede jacket, blue jeans, and boots walking towards the church hall, where more cars than usual were parked.

Of course. Today’s the Bring and Buy.

Something about the woman snagged Tarian’s attention the way it had her dogs’, and she didn’t think it was just that she was attractive and blonde, and there was a sensuous sway to her walk. “Stay,” she ordered, as Anwar and Drysi started forward. With a grumble of protest, they obeyed.

Tarian extended her senses. Though the woman appeared calm and collected, and her thoughts were focussed on, of all things, homemade cakes, she was as tense as a bowstring. Tarian probed a little deeper. Beneath the surface roiled agitation, fear, and, not loneliness exactly, but a feeling of being helpless and alone.

The woman must have sensed her interest, for she turned and for a moment locked gazes with Tarian. Curiosity sparked in those green eyes before the woman ducked her head and broke the contact between them. She walked on towards the church hall.

While it was second nature for the Fae to live in the moment, Tarian had discovered that mortals rarely did. Everyday fears and anxieties dogged their waking hours. If they weren’t worrying about a nagging pain, they were fretting about thinning hair or a crack in the ceiling. But the anxiety this woman was trying to suppress was more than that. It was the panic prey feels when it knows a predator is on its trail.

What could be hunting her?

On impulse, Tarian traced a glyph with her fingers and muttered a phrase. With a casual flick of her fingers, disguised as brushing dirt from her sweatshirt, she activated the ward she had created and sent it flying towards its target, ignoring the momentary headache that triggering the spell had caused. The sparkling mote attached itself to the sleeve of the woman’s suede jacket. It was invisible to mortal eyes, but if danger should threaten her, Tarian would know.

After the woman had disappeared inside the church hall, Tarian made for the post office. Bryan and the art shop could wait. She would kill two birds with one stone—while she purchased postage stamps and a loaf of bread, the gossipy postmistress would tell her all she knew about Bourn’s Edge’s attractive visitor.

“EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT, dear?”

Cassie pushed her empty plate to one side and patted her stomach. “That was delicious.”

Liz smiled. “There’s apple crumble for dessert. Or you can have fresh fruit salad, or cheese and biscuits, or—”

“Fruit salad please.” Though she adored crumble, the lasagne had left her no room for it.

While Liz took the dirty plates back through to the kitchen, Cassie took the opportunity to survey the dining room. There were framed photos on the shelf above the radiator. Several featured a younger version of the landlady. Many were obviously holiday snaps, and she was always arm in arm with a handsome man with a bushy moustache. There were also a few photos of a young boy in school uniform. He seemed to be trying out different hairstyles—in the last one, his fringe flopped into his eyes.

A rustle announced Liz’s return. “My son, Robert.” She had caught the direction of Cassie’s gaze. “He’s thirty-one now. Works as a civil servant in Ludlow.” She placed a bowl of sliced apples, bananas, and strawberries on the table, and next to it a jug of double cream. “The man’s my husband, Bill. He died ten years ago. Help yourself, dear.”

“Thanks.” Cassie helped herself to fruit salad. “You must miss him.” She reached for the jug.

“I do.” Liz shrugged. “I don’t mind telling you, things were a struggle after he died. That’s why I took to doing bed and breakfasts.”

Cassie picked up her spoon and began to eat. “Do you get many customers?”

“To be honest, no.” Liz took the seat opposite her, as though settling herself for a nice long chat. “We’re not exactly on the beaten track. Mostly people are just passing through, like yourself. Those that come on purpose come for the forest: ramblers, bird watchers, artists like Tarian Brangwen. It’s one of the few areas of ancient woodland left round here, you see.”

“How ancient is ‘ancient’?”

Liz laughed. “I’ve no idea. You want to ask Tarian. She spends a lot of time in the forest. Probably knows more about it than us locals.”

Cassie remembered her encounter with the artist in the High Street—who else could it be with those dogs? They hadn’t exchanged a word, yet Tarian had left a deep impression on her, and she found she kept thinking about her, that long black hair, those striking blue eyes. “She’s very tall, isn’t she? Rather exotic-looking too.”

“I suppose she is. Would have made a good supermodel.” Liz drew a pattern on the tablecloth with her forefinger. “Most men like their women shorter than they are, don’t they? Maybe that’s why she’s not married yet.”

Cassie could think of other reasons. “Aren’t any of the eligible bachelors in Bourn’s Edge tall?”

The landlady pulled a face. “Our only bachelors are Mike up at the garage and the vicar. And to be blunt, a woman would have to be pretty desperate to take on either of them.”

Cassie laughed. “Well, at least Tarian has her dogs for company.”

“Those dirty great brutes!”

“I know what you mean.” Cassie too had been struck by their size. She remembered the rough brindled coats, deep chests, sleek muzzles, and alert, intelligent eyes. “What breed are they?”

“Supposed to be wolfhounds,” said Liz, “but I’ve never seen one like that on Crufts. Tarian seldom goes anywhere without them. Had them with her when she stayed here, as a matter of fact.” She grimaced. “House stank of wet dog for months. It was after that I brought in the ‘no pets’ rule.”

“She stayed here?”

“It was a couple of years ago. Must’ve been about this time of year, too. She just turned up one morning, looking like something the cat had dragged in. Never did say what had happened to her, but my guess is she was involved in an accident. With hindsight, I reckon she was in shock. She had no car and no luggage, no money either. Just the clothes she stood up in and those dogs. To tell you the truth, I was in two minds whether to let her stay, but I couldn’t turn her away, now, could I?”

Cassie smiled at her. “How long did she stay?”

“A week, I think it was,” said Liz. “By the end of it, though, she’d pulled herself together, got a huge roll of banknotes from somewhere, and started looking for somewhere to live. I was the one who put her on to the forester’s house. It had been empty for years. Looked a wreck from the outside but I knew that was superficial and it was sound as a bell. Didn’t take her long to knock the place into shape. By way of thanks she gave me one of her paintings—my son has it on his wall in Ludlow—and that bench in the front garden.”

“The one with the scarecrow sitting on it?”

Liz chuckled. “That’s meant to be Prince Charles but he didn’t come out quite right. Don’t suppose he’ll win. Competition is the steepest I can remember. Janet Edwards has done a witch on a broomstick that makes your flesh creep, and Gary Jones has made a brilliant pirate. He’s got an eye patch, a parrot, and a wooden leg. Well, both legs are wooden, but you know what I mean.”

Cassie finished the last of her fruit. “I enjoyed that,” she said, putting down the spoon. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Liz kicked back her chair and stood up. “Want your coffee here or in your room?” She began to clear away the dessert dishes.

Cassie considered. “In my room, please.”

“Going to watch a bit of TV?”

“I might. It depends what’s on.”

“I’m afraid reception can be a bit grainy. Depends on the weather.”

“What do people do in the evenings?”

“Most nights there’s something on at the church hall. W.I., Garden Club, skittles, Dance Class (they’re learning Salsa), that kind of thing. Otherwise people just go to the pub or stay in and read a book. Talking of which, you missed the mobile library this morning. It comes round every Thursday, if you’re interested.”

“Thanks,” said Cassie. “But I’ve got some phone calls to make tonight anyway.” Including one to the elusive DS Edlin, who still hadn’t returned her call. “I think I’ll make it an early night.”

Chapter 5

Armitage dried his hands on the prison towel and flopped down on the narrow bed. An hour working out in the gym had left him feeling tired and hungry but the results were worth it. He gave his stomach a satisfied pat; already his beer gut was smaller. He had let himself go, he supposed. That wouldn’t happen again.

He checked his watch—half an hour until lunch—then retrieved his mobile phone from its hiding place and dialled. It was answered after only two rings.

“Any news?” Armitage listened as Rigby brought him up to date and grinned. “What did I tell you? I knew sooner or later she’d call them. Where did you say? Never heard of the place.” He examined his fingernails, decided they needed a trim, and stopped Rigby in mid flow. “Never mind how far it is from bloody Ludlow. I don’t need to know where Bourn’s Edge is as long as you do. Yeah. And this time no cock-ups, right? Take some of the boys with you. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done.”

THE BLOCK STANDING between Tarian and her painting had dissolved, and since early morning she had been hard at it, wielding brush and palette knife with a deft touch she thought had deserted her. She hadn’t even stopped for lunch. Which made the knock at her front door even more annoying.

Mumbling a curse—a brush was clenched between her teeth—she ignored it and hoped whoever it was would go away.

The knock came again, louder.

She spat out the brush. “Boar’s entrails!”

Anwar and Drysi had risen in their baskets, and their hackles were up. Anwar looked at her, and an image of the Rev. Simon Wright came into her head.

“That’s all I need.”

She heaved open the front door and glared at the man standing on her doorstep—his iron cross was making her teeth ache. “Yes?”

“Er, good afternoon, Ms. Brangwen,” said the vicar. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenient moment?”

“It is, as it happens.”

He took in her paint-spattered appearance, and the cheeks beneath his beard reddened. “I’m so sorry.” He made as if to leave, then halted and turned back. “But since I’ve already disturbed you.” He gave her a hopeful look.

She sighed and stood aside. “You’d better come in.”

He hesitated. Hardly surprising, given the way Anwar and Drysi were eying him. Tarian’s soft word of command sent them to their baskets. The vicar gave a sigh of relief and stepped inside her hall.

“It’s about the scarecrow contest.” He wiped his feet on her doormat, blinked at the boar spear hanging on the wall, and followed her into the kitchen.

“What about it?” She turned to look at him and folded her arms.

He ran a finger round the inside of his dog collar. “Well, I’m supposed to be judging it tomorrow, as you know, but I have to go away tonight—a friend of mine is in hospital—and won’t be back ’til Sunday. So I was wondering . . .”

She frowned. “Yes?”

“I know it’s short notice, but, I was wondering if you might judge the contest.”

“Me?” Her eyebrows shot up. “I know nothing about scarecrows, Reverend. Isn’t there anyone more suitable? A member of your congregation, perhaps?”

He fingered his crucifix. “Well, I did ask some of them before I approached you, of course.” Might have guessed I would be his last resort. “But it requires an unbiased judge, and most of my parishioners, if they haven’t entered a scarecrow themselves this year, are related to someone who has.”

“I see.”

His tone became wheedling. “With your artist’s eye, Ms. Brangwen, your aesthetic sensibility—”

“I would be at a disadvantage,” she completed.

“What? Oh.” He smiled as he realised she had made a joke. “Ha. Good one. It’s true some of the entries are a bit of an eyesore. But it’s all for a good cause, you know.”

Tarian stared out of the kitchen window while she considered his request. The vicar must be desperate if he had got up the nerve to pay her a visit in person. She tossed a mental coin, sighed, and faced him.

“All right.”

From the way his jaw dropped, he had expected her to put up more of a fight. “Really?”

She nodded. “I’ll judge your scarecrows. For this year only. Don’t expect me to do it again.”

He beamed. “Oh that’s terrific. I can’t thank you enough, Ms. Brangwen.”

“Yes you can.”

He looked apprehensive. “Um. How?”

“By leaving so that I can get on with my work.”

“Of course.” He turned at once and made for the door. “Thanks again for doing this, Ms. Brangwen. And good luck with the judging.”

Tarian closed the door behind him.

IT DIDN’T TAKE Cassie long to reach the signpost Liz had told her about. She climbed over the battered wooden stile and started along the footpath, which sloped gently uphill. Her intention had been to take a look at Tarian’s house, but the presence of the vicar on the artist’s doorstep had stymied that. It was a lovely afternoon, however, so she had walked past, as if she intended to visit Bourn Forest all along.

The forest canopy wasn’t in full leaf yet and let through dappled sunlight. In the distance a pigeon cooed. When was the last time she had been on a woodland walk? That school outing to Sutton Park’s nature trail? She determined to make the most of it.

A scrabble along a branch overhead proved to be a squirrel. It paused, feathery tail twitching, and looked down at her with beady black eyes before scurrying off. She sucked in a lungful of air, noticing the smell of spring foliage and leaf mould, and lengthened her stride.

She was feeling much happier. She had managed to get in touch with DS Edlin that morning, and though he had proved to be as sceptical as his boss, he had agreed to look into the incident with the white van. He’d also promised her that, if he found proof Armitage was behind the attempt to shunt her off the road, he would investigate the possibility of getting her onto a witness protection scheme.

What must be a game trail branched off the path to the right, and Cassie took it. Liz had warned her to stick to the footpath, but she was feeling adventurous. It wasn’t long before she began to regret her impulse. The trail was proving steeper than the path had been, made more treacherous by tree roots. Ivy-covered trunks pressed ever closer, until branches were tangling in her hair and scratching her cheeks. The light dimmed and the birdsong and rustle of wildlife searching for food in the undergrowth faded, leaving behind a brooding silence.

Maybe it was her imagination, but this part of the forest felt different. Mosses and lichens coated many of the trunks, and they had that twisted almost sinister shape that comes only with great age. There was a watchful quality here that she found unnerving. She had the feeling the trees were weighing her up, and if they should detect any ill intent towards them on her part . . . How could Tarian spend so much time alone in such a place? But then, the company of those dogs must make for a very different woodland experience.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, Cassie retraced her steps. As the incline gentled, the light grew brighter and her surroundings airier, and the cheerful sounds of the forest returned. Cassie felt a profound sense of relief and laughed at herself. It was Liz’s fault. Over breakfast she had delighted in telling Cassie spooky tales of how, every time the current owner tried to sell Bourn Forest, the sale fell through, and if he tried to fell his trees, accidents befell the tree surgeons.

She jumped down from the stile and walked back down the hill. The vicar’s car had gone from outside Tarian’s house, but she had no idea if Tarian was at home. Curiosity got the better of her, and she pretended to empty a stone from her shoe while giving the house a good long look.

So she did the house up herself? Not a bad job. Wonder which of the windows belongs to her studio? Because all artists had a studio, didn’t they? The temptation to peek inside was overwhelming, but she knew that would be taking her fascination with Tarian to stalker-like levels, so reluctantly she put her shoe back on and carried on down the hill.

TARIAN HAD JUST become immersed in her painting once more when something dragged her back to her surroundings—an irritating buzzing sound at the edge of her hearing. Puzzled, she straightened, and gave the sound her full attention.

The ward.

The faintness of the buzzing indicated that the threat to the mortal woman, whose name she had learned was Cassie Lewis, was not serious as yet. But it was drawing closer. She wondered what it was.

“Anwar. Drysi.” Her call brought the wolfhounds to her side. “Remember this mortal?” She pictured Cassie in her mind and sent them the image. Anwar’s nose nudged her hand in acknowledgment. “Find her. Something is hunting her. When you know what it is, come and tell me. Understand?”

Drysi let out a soft bark, and Anwar whined.

“Good dogs.” She fondled their ears then opened the front door for them and pointed. “Go. And don’t let anyone see you.”

CASSIE HAD NOTICED that most of the front gardens contained scarecrows of one kind or another. Now, she took the opportunity to take a closer look. What a motley assortment. Some were traditional, made of turnip heads and twigs; others had utilised more modern materials—she thought using a shop window dummy was cheating. Her favourites were the pirate and the burglar carrying a bag marked “swag.” But she wasn’t the judge, and the vicar probably had very different taste.

A loud rumble drew her attention to the hollowness of her stomach. She checked her watch and was startled to find it was much later than she had thought. No wonder I’m starving. Wonder what’s for supper?

She was passing the church when a sound like claws clicking on concrete made her glance over her shoulder. There was nothing there, though, so she carried on. Movement up ahead caught her eye: a black Renault was coming up the road towards her. Its windows were in need of a good wash, but she could make out the shapes of two people in the front and two in the back. It slowed as it drew nearer, and veered towards the pavement on which she was walking.

A tourist wanting directions? She was readying herself to give her stock answer, “Sorry. I’m a stranger here myself,” when she heard the sound of a door closing nearby.

Dr. Reynolds—Liz had told her the village had only the one doctor, so it must be him—was in the process of locking up the surgery. He saw Cassie watching him and smiled, revealing even white teeth.

“Enjoying your stay with us, Ms. Lewis?” He must be another subscriber to the village grapevine.

“Very much, thank you.”

He picked up his bag and hurried to join her. She slowed so he could fall into step. Close up, he was older than she had at first thought. Must be the boyish good looks and well cut suit.

“Making a home visit?” She nodded at his heavy bag.

“Mrs. Dobson. She’s housebound so I like to look in on her from time to time. After that it’ll be time to see what Madge—my wife—has cooked for supper.” He glanced at her. “I expect you’re ready for something to eat too.”

“You bet. My stomach feels like my throat’s been cut.”

She remembered the black Renault and turned, expecting to see its driver winding down his window, but there was no sign of it. Belatedly she registered the revving of an engine. She turned and saw the car disappearing up the hill. Must have changed his mind.

Something moved in the pub car park across the road, and she glanced at the doctor who looked a question at her in return. “Did you just see a couple of dogs?” she asked. They weren’t there now. Could she have imagined their heads ducking down behind the low wall?

“No. But I shouldn’t worry. They’re probably Tarian Brangwen’s.”

She looked for the artist, but could see no sign of her.

“They get loose from time to time,” continued Dr. Reynolds. “But they don’t cause any damage.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get on if I’m going to visit Mrs. Dobson. Nice talking to you.”

“And you.”

As he hurried off, she stared hard at the wall of the car park, but the dogs’ heads didn’t reappear. Then another rumble from her stomach drew her attention back to more pressing concerns.

TARIAN PUT ASIDE her book as a panting Anwar and Drysi came into the sitting room. The dogs threw themselves on the rug by her feet and looked up at her.

“Well?” She nudged the closer of the two, Anwar, with her foot. “Did you find her?” He licked his chops and rested his head on his paws. “Oh I see. Going to let your wife speak for you, are you, Lazybones?” Amused, she dug in her foot and tickled his ribs. He gave a contented sigh and closed his eyes.

Tarian turned her attention to Drysi. “Well?” The wolfhound gazed deep into her eyes, and after a moment a stream of images popped into her head.

Cassie Lewis walking along the road.

A black car—correction, a very dirty black car—coming in the opposite direction, the driver’s face unclear, the number plate illegible.

The car pulling closer to the pavement, as though preparing to mount it.

Cassie turning her head, her lips moving as she speaks to someone: Dr. Reynolds.

The black car changing course at the last minute, pulling away from the kerb, and speeding off into the distance.

The images stopped, and it was Drysi’s turn to drop her head onto her paws and sigh.

“Well done,” Tarian told her.

She went through to the kitchen and returned with a couple of boar’s thighbones, the flesh still clinging to them. The dogs caught them with a snap of teeth. Tarian resumed her seat and stared into the log fire, as gnawing noises joined the crackle of flames.

She doubted Cassie was even aware of her narrow escape. But if the doctor hadn’t arrived at just the right moment . . . They didn’t want a witness. Wonder who they are, and why they want to kill her.

The jangling buzz of the ward hadn’t gone away. If anything it was growing louder. Which meant the danger wasn’t over. She glanced out the window and saw that night was drawing in. The thugs would be back—while Cassie was asleep and vulnerable.

She got to her feet and began to pace. Drysi and Anwar continued their gnawing while they watched her. She halted by the sitting room window and gazed down the hill. Then an idea struck her and she began to laugh. The dogs exchanged a glance.

“Don’t mind me,” she told them with a grin.

It took Tarian a few moments to find what she was after: a tattered street plan of Bourn’s Edge. She spread it out on a table, traced a circle with her forefinger around the village, and followed it with a series of glyphs. Then she muttered a few words and gestured. Her head throbbed in response and she waited for the spell’s backwash to pass.

“Look after her,” she murmured, and went back to her book.

Chapter 6

Cassie knuckled grit from her eyes and sat up. It had been the worst night’s sleep she’d had in ages. Around midnight, what sounded like foxes rummaging through the rubbish sacks had disturbed her. Except now she came to think about it, hadn’t the bin men collected those yesterday? Then there were the weird dreams. She drew back the curtains and blinked.

All around the B & B’s front garden and along the road in both directions lay scarecrows toppled like ninepins. As for the garden itself, it looked like a herd of wildebeest had stampeded through it. Part of the fence had been flattened, the wooden bench lay on its side, and where was Prince Charles? Heavy footprints marred the once pristine borders, and the carefully tended plants and shrubs had been squashed flat.

Foxes don’t do that.

Cassie pulled her jacket on over her nightie and hurried downstairs. “Liz. Liz. Are you all right?” She followed the clatter and appetising smells to the kitchen, where her landlady was cooking breakfast.

Liz did a double take at Cassie’s appearance and gave her a rueful grin. “You’ve seen the state of my front garden, I take it?” Cassie nodded. “Don’t suppose you heard or saw anything last night?”

“I thought it was foxes. Sorry.”

“Never mind. I know who must have done it. Young hooligans. Just wait until I tell their mother.”

Liz added two eggs and some sliced mushrooms to the frying pan and four rashers of bacon to the grill. Her matter-of-fact manner reassured Cassie, and she pulled out a chair and sat down.

“So who was it?” Cassie rested her elbows on the kitchen table.

“The Scott twins, who else?” Liz set a place in front of Cassie. “Couple of tearaways, those two. Well, they’ve gone too far this time. I’ve called the police.” She popped sliced bread into the toaster.

“But why would they do such a thing?”

“For fun. They once emptied the contents of my rubbish sacks all over the garden.” Liz wiped her hands on her apron and began spooning hot fat over the eggs. “It’s going to make Tarian’s job harder too.”

The non sequitur puzzled Cassie. “What’s she got to do with it?”

“Oh didn’t you know?” The toaster pinged, and the toast popped up, nicely browned. “The vicar was called away at short notice. She’s judging the scarecrow contest.”

ARMITAGE SCOWLED AT the phone. “What do you mean: scarecrows attacked you? Have you been drinking?” He could have done with a drink himself. Last night had been a disturbed one. A prisoner further along the landing had spent it shouting obscenities and rattling his cell door.

The voice at the other end continued its bleating, and Armitage could feel his blood pressure rising.

“For God’s sake, Rigby! Enough excuses. Four hulking men against a girl? How hard can it be?” He realised he was shouting and lowered his voice. “Look, let me spell it out. I’m paying you to sort out this little problem, and you’re going to do it or find me someone who can. So get back up there now and bloody take care of the Lewis girl.”

He switched off the phone and flung it across the room. Not hard enough to damage it though. A new phone would cost, and he didn’t have money to burn.

TARIAN SHOVED DRYSI out of her way and opened the oven door. The casserole was on schedule, so she left it to finish cooking, moved to the window, and stared out at the darkening sky.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had invited a mortal to dinner. But there was something about Cassie she found appealing. Now she wondered if her invitation had been a wise one. Still, the opportunity to find out more about Cassie and her mysterious pursuers was too good to pass up.

The day had started unpromisingly. One of the vicar’s parishioners had slogged up the hill to tell Tarian what had happened overnight to the scarecrows and that the Scott boys were at the police station being given a good talking to. Tarian suppressed a twinge of guilt—the boys might be innocent this time, but punishment was long overdue for past misdeeds. Pretending to be as amazed and outraged at the news as her informant, she said she would be at Liz Hayward’s house in quarter of an hour to assess the situation.

The chaos that greeted her astounded her. She hadn’t expected her spell to result in this much destruction. The men pursuing Cassie must have put up quite a fight. With a rueful grimace, she set about retrieving the situation.

“There’s no time to return the scarecrows to their gardens,” she told the villagers gathered there, “so I’ll judge them here.” Some grumbled at that, claiming their scarecrows couldn’t be judged fairly unless they were in situ, but a look from her quietened them down.

Scarecrow heads had gone missing, and twiggy limbs had been snapped in two. On Tarian’s instructions, people scoured the village for scattered body parts and accessories, such as the pirate’s parrot and the burglar’s bag of swag, and reunited them with their owners, now laid out in a line on the pavement outside the B & B.

She gave the entrants an hour to repair the worst of the damage to their entries, an ultimatum that brought yet more complaints. But a tart reminder that the contest was just a bit of fun meant to raise funds for the church spire reduced the discontent to a manageable level.

But if the logistics of judging had become simpler, the rest of the process was no less problematic. She had no idea how the vicar went about it, but she had no intention of tossing a coin or of putting names in a hat.

It was at that point that Cassie, bright-eyed with curiosity, had emerged from the B & B’s front door, introduced herself, and offered to help. From that point on, Tarian’s day had improved, and the chore of judging had become almost enjoyable.

“The problem is, it’s like comparing apples with oranges,” she confided to Cassie, who was jotting down notes about each scarecrow and had asked what criteria Tarian was using. “There should be some points awarded for imagination and for choice of materials, I suppose. Other than that, I’m just going with my gut.”

“Well, why not? I’ve seen your paintings in the art gallery, by the way. I like them.”

“Thank you. They’re not to everyone’s taste.”

“Your figures are very stylised,” agreed Cassie, “but they look right for the setting, somehow.”

Which was perceptive of her, and just the first of many indications that Cassie was more than just a pretty face and shapely figure. She had a sense of humour too, and Tarian found herself smiling at the comments Cassie made as they progressed along the row of supine scarecrows.

In the end, it had come down to a toss-up between the Morris Dancer and the Pirate, and though Cassie tried to persuade her to change her mind, Tarian plumped for the Morris Dancer. She tore out a blank page from Cassie’s notebook, scribbled on it the name of the winner and runner up, signed and dated it, and pinned it to the notice board in the church hall.

Then, unwilling to cut such an enjoyable day short, she’d asked Cassie if she would like to come to dinner that evening. To the surprise of both of them, she suspected, Cassie accepted.

Drysi’s ears pricked up, and, tail wagging, she hurried to join Anwar who was waiting just inside the front door. Tarian checked the clock and smiled. She found Cassie on her doorstep, arm raised, about to knock.

“Oh!” Cassie pressed her hand to her heart. “You startled me.”

“Anwar and Drysi knew you were here,” said Tarian. “Come in.” She stepped back, a word of command keeping the dogs from pushing their noses into her visitor’s crotch.

“Let me take your coat.”

“Thanks.” Cassie unbuttoned her suede jacket and eased out of it. “Mm. Something smells nice.”

“It’s boar casserole.” Tarian hung up the jacket. “Thought it would make a change from pasta.”

Cassie chuckled. “I’d forgotten you stayed at the B & B. Liz does serve pasta rather a lot, doesn’t she? Um, boar, did you say?” Her brows drew together. “I can’t say I’ve ever had that.”

“You’ll like it. Kitchen’s through there.” Tarian pointed. “Let’s go through.”

“While I think, I was hoping you might show me around your studio later,” said Cassie, looking hopeful. “If that isn’t too cheeky.”

“Not cheeky at all.” Tarian checked her watch. “Dinner won’t be ready for another quarter of an hour. Why don’t I show you round now?” She ushered a pleased Cassie to the door at the far end of the hall and followed her through it, the dogs bringing up the rear.

“Wow!” Cassie stopped in front of the easel and admired her work in progress. “This is wonderful, Tarian.”

“It’s not quite right, but I’m getting there.”

“You certainly are. Where do you get your inspiration from?”

“The forest. My imagination. Anything and everything around me.”

Cassie smiled at that and nodded.

Tarian watched her walk round the studio, taking in every detail, even the labels on the tubes and jars of paint laid out on the trestle table. Cassie crouched next to the paintings stacked with their faces to the wall and turned to look up at her.

“May I?”

“Be my guest. They’re unfinished though,” warned Tarian. “Sketches and daubs I’ve given up on.”

Cassie thumbed through the canvases, stopping every now and then to make noises that, to Tarian’s ear at least, sounded genuinely interested or appreciative.

She’d give me a swelled head, if I let her. She was beginning to feel fond of Cassie.

The aroma drifting through from the kitchen told her the boar was cooked. “We should eat.”

Cassie stood up at once and came towards her. “I wish I could paint.”

“Have you ever tried?” Tarian ushered her out into the hall once more.

“It’s one of many things I plan to try one day.” Cassie’s eyes widened as she noticed the boar spear hanging on the hall wall. “That looks lethal. Is it real?”

Tarian urged her past it and into the kitchen. “‘One day’ may never come, you know.”

“I know.” Cassie sighed and took the chair that Tarian indicated, looking startled when the dogs plumped themselves down on either side of her and rested their chins on her shoes. “Are your dogs this friendly with everyone?”

No, was the short answer. “They like you.” She wondered whether to tell them to leave Cassie alone, but Cassie didn’t seem to mind their attentions. She couldn’t help but notice how at ease Cassie was. She had her elbows on the table and her chin propped on one hand. For some reason, Tarian found it gratifying.

“What breed are they?” asked Cassie.

“Wolfhounds.” She pulled on a pair of oven gloves and stooped to take the casserole out of the oven.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but they don’t look like any wolfhound I’ve ever seen.”

Tarian straightened and put the hot dish on a trivet. “That’s because the ones you’ve seen aren’t authentic.” She began to divide up the dinner.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re crosses.” Tarian had done her research. “With breeds like Tibetan Mastiff, Borzoi, Great Dane. Who knows what else?” She set a steaming plate in front of Cassie and took her own place at the table.

“Really?” Cassie picked up her knife and fork. “What did you say their names are: Dryser and An something?”

“Drysi and Anwar.” Tarian speared a piece of meat with her fork.

“So they’re rare, then?”

Mouth full, Tarian nodded.

“You should breed them. They must be worth a fortune.”

“I suppose they are.” Now there’s an idea. If demand for my paintings dries up, I can always mate you two and sell your pups.

At the thought, the dogs’ heads came up and they gave Tarian an indignant glance. She suppressed a snort. Point made, they settled their chins on Cassie’s feet once more.

Cassie chewed. “This is delicious. What’s in the sauce?”

“Mushrooms, redcurrants, red wine.”

“I haven’t seen boar on sale in Bourn’s Edge. Do you shop in Ludlow?”

“Sometimes.” Tarian thought it best not to mention that she had killed the boar herself. Mortals were surprisingly squeamish. “If I can get myself organised enough to catch the bus. There’s only one a day.”

“You don’t drive?”

Tarian shook her head. She could make a warhorse do whatever she wanted, but automobiles were another matter. She reached for the bottle. “Would you like some wine?”

“Please.”

She poured them both a glass and watched Cassie relax in her chair and take an appreciative sip.

“So, has anyone in the village argued with you about the results of the scarecrow contest yet?”

“To be honest,” said Tarian, “I’ve been avoiding them.”

Cassie laughed. “People are so competitive, aren’t they?”

“And another thing. Apparently the winner and runner up are supposed to receive certificates and rosettes.” She gave a helpless shrug.

“Didn’t the vicar leave you any?”

“No.” Tarian wondered if he had been too flustered to remember.

“Well, he’s back tomorrow, isn’t he? He can hand them out himself. Liz says you and he don’t see eye to eye.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow. “Does she?”

Cassie’s cheeks pinked. “I’ve been asking questions about you. I was curious. I’ve never met an artist before.”

Tarian sipped her wine and wondered whether to feel flattered or nervous at her obvious interest. “She’s right. The Reverend’s kind and mine don’t get on.”

Cassie blinked. “Vicars and artists, you mean?”

“Mm.” The wine must be going to her head, or maybe it was the company. She resolved to be more circumspect. “What do you do for a living?”

“Me? Oh.” Cassie fiddled with the stem of her glass. “I’m a librarian. I work in Birmingham.”

“What brings you to Bourn’s Edge? Apart from having to get your car repaired, I mean.” There, the question was out in the open at last.

The silence stretched as Cassie bit her lip and looked down. Tarian had resigned herself to not getting an answer when Cassie’s head came up, and she took a breath.

“This will seem unbelievable, but the truth is, I’m in hiding.”

Tarian leaned forward. “From who?”

“A man named Armitage. Or rather, his men. Armitage himself is in Winson Green prison.”

Tarian sat back. “You put him there?” Of course you did.

“In a way. I testified against him. He’s a property developer cum landlord, corrupt as they come.”

“And the police have given you no protection.” Tarian worked it out. “They think you’re exaggerating, but you aren’t. His men have made an attempt on your life already.”

Cassie gaped at her. “How—How did you know about that?”

Just then both dogs got to their feet, hackles rising, growling a low warning to Tarian in the back of their throats. She kicked back her chair and stood up.

“What is it?” Cassie looked at the dogs then at her.

She held up a hand for silence. The ward’s background buzz had risen to a shrill whine that was setting her teeth on edge. With a gesture she destroyed it—it had served its purpose. From the studio came the sound of glass breaking, followed by several dull thuds.

“Uninvited guests.”

At Tarian’s signal, the dogs bounded off to investigate. Moments later came sounds of snarling and scuffling, and a man’s voice raised in pain.

“Stay here.” Tarian went into the hall and reached for the boar spear and bow.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Cassie had followed her.

“It would take too long.” The snarling and scuffling intensified, then came what sounded like a shotgun blast. “Moon and stars!”

Her quiver over one shoulder, bow in one hand and spear in the other, Tarian set off along the hall. She had almost reached the studio when a figure spilled backwards through the open door. The man’s stocking mask couldn’t hide his terror, and even falling on his backside didn’t make him release his grip on a still smoking shotgun. The reason became apparent when a large brindled shape leaped through the doorway and sank its teeth into his throat. He let out a helpless gurgle.

Satisfied Anwar had the situation under control, Tarian leaped over the man’s weakly kicking legs and entered her studio. She took in the situation at a glance. Three masked intruders had cornered Drysi. From their bleeding hands, she had bitten them, but now she was trapped. They had used a chair, trestle table, and easel to pen her, and a gangly fellow was about to smash in her skull with a claw hammer.

Tarian pulled back her arm and threw. The boar spear cleared Drysi’s muzzle by a centimetre and took the dog’s attacker in the chest, pinning him to the wall like a butterfly. The hammer dropped from his slack fingers. His companions spat obscenities and turned to face Tarian. Drysi used the diversion to wriggle her way to freedom and returned to the attack.

As the wolfhound threw herself at his throat, the smaller of the men yelled, “Get this fucking dog off me!” Then he began to scream. His friend raised a wicked-looking hunting knife and went to his aid.

With the ease of long practice, Tarian pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it to her bowstring, aimed, and loosed. There was a surprised squawk and droplets of something hot spattered her cheek. The man dropped the knife, his hands reaching for the object now sprouting from either side of his neck. Then with a strangled, bubbling cry he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She wiped her face with the back of one hand, unsurprised when it came away bloody.

Drysi’s target had crumpled to the floor and lay unmoving in a pool of spreading crimson. The wolfhound spat out a gobbet of flesh and sneezed. It was silent in the studio apart from the padding of Anwar’s paws as he came to join them.

Tarian sat on her heels as both dogs, whining softly, pressed themselves against her. A quick examination reassured her that the blood on their coats wasn’t theirs. So what damage did the shotgun do? She scanned her surroundings and paused when she saw her work in progress lying on the floor, a huge hole blown in its centre.

“Good dogs.” She buried her face in Anwar’s rough coat. “Splendid dogs.”

A noise from the doorway made Tarian lift her head and turn to see what had caused it. Cassie stood there, eyes wide with horror and a hand covering her mouth.

CASSIE GAPED AT the carnage surrounding Tarian. How much force had it taken to pin a man to the wall with that ferocious spear?

“You killed them!”

Tarian straightened to her full height and looked at her. The red smears on her cheeks gave her a primal look, and Cassie took an involuntary step back.

Her heel banged against something—a shotgun. Her eyes tracked the arm holding it to the bloody mess that had been its owner’s throat then away again. Everywhere she looked were bodies, hands and limbs contorted in death, and blood—she could even smell it: a cloying, coppery tang. She was glad the stocking masks hid the faces. It was like a scene from a horror movie. She fought against the urge to be sick.

“You killed them,” she repeated, her voice a whisper. The ferocity, speed, and ruthlessness with which the artist and her dogs had despatched the intruders had left her stunned and afraid.

Tarian crossed to the studio’s enamel sink. She turned on the taps and washed her hands. The swirling water ran pink before disappearing down the plughole.

“You didn’t have to,” continued Cassie. “We could have run out the front door, got to safety, called the police.”

Tarian wiped her hands on a towel. “There was no time.” Her tone was cool.

Cassie had thought she was getting to know Tarian, but now she wasn’t so sure. She forced herself to step into the studio. “But to kill them, just like that.” No normal woman could have done it, or been so calm about it afterwards. Who is she? Her heart thumped. What is she?

“They don’t deserve your pity, Cassie.” Pale blue eyes held her gaze. “They were warned off but they came back. They would have killed the dogs, then me, then you.”

“But how do you know they weren’t just burglars?”

Tarian crouched beside one of the men and pulled up the stocking mask. “Recognise him?”

Cassie shook her head.

Tarian searched the man’s pockets but came away empty. She rose and moved on to the next corpse. This time, when she pulled up the stocking mask, Cassie let out a gasp. The broken nose and heavy brows were familiar.

“You know him,” stated Tarian.

Cassie nodded. White van man would never smile that snaggle-toothed smile again.

Tarian went through his pockets and pulled out what looked like a photograph, folded in half. She smoothed it and handed it to Cassie.

There was a roaring in her ears as she found she was looking at herself. The photo had been taken a fortnight ago. She was coming out of Birmingham Crown Court. Someone had scribbled over it in magic marker: “This is the bitch. Get rid of her.” She forced herself to breathe, and the roaring faded.

“They came to kill you,” repeated Tarian.

Cassie licked her lips and looked up. “But I—But you—How—?” She didn’t know what to think. Relief that the men were no longer a threat warred with suspicion and disbelief. Something of her confusion must have shown, because Tarian’s expression gentled.

“Go home, Cassie. Let me take care of this.”

“But I’ll need to be here when the police come, won’t I?”

“I’m not going to call the police.”

Cassie’s fear returned, doubled. “What? But you have to. Someone will report them missing, and the trail will lead here.”

“I’ll make sure the trail goes cold.”

“Don’t be stupid. Forensics—”

“Will find nothing. Trust me.”

Ah, but that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? “How can I?” asked Cassie, after a long pause. “After what you and your dogs just did?” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it. Are you”—an urge to giggle surfaced, and she clamped down on it; now was not the time for hysteria—“are you even human?”

Some emotion flickered across Tarian’s face—regret, sadness?—but when she spoke there was no hint of it in her voice. “It doesn’t matter. I’m no threat to you. You have my word.”

Her answer was like a dash of cold water. Deep down, Cassie had been expecting Tarian to ridicule her for asking such a preposterous question. The fact that she hadn’t . . . Certain things came into stark relief: Tarian’s height and exotic good looks, her wolfhounds, the old-fashioned and very lethal weaponry she kept on her wall.

“Oh my God!” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “You’re not human, are you?”

Tarian’s gaze was unfathomable. “Go back to Liz Hayward’s.”

Her tone was that of someone accustomed to having her orders obeyed, and Cassie found herself reacting to it and turning to leave. At the studio door she stopped herself and looked back.

“Will you be all right?”

The question seemed to surprise Tarian. She gave a stiff nod.

For a moment longer Cassie gazed at her, then she stepped over the shotgun and the dead hand still clutching it, grabbed her jacket from its peg, and made her way towards the front door.

Chapter 7

Tarian searched the dead mortals, but found little of interest. She retrieved her arrow and spear—it had gouged a deep hole in the studio wall—and dragged the bodies into the centre of the studio. She didn’t bother to remove the stocking masks, but straightened limbs, and laid out the bodies side by side. In the middle she piled the hunting knife, claw hammer, and shotgun.

The dogs hunkered down, watching her, as she traced a glyph, muttered the accompanying few words, and gestured. The bodies and weapons imploded, disappearing with a faint pop. The power drain caused by the powerful spell came a moment later. She staggered under its impact, and her head throbbed. “Moon and stars!” It took her a moment to get back her breath.

After wiping the sweat from her forehead, she set about tidying up. A combination of magic and physical effort soon returned the studio to some sort of order. She left the ruined painting alone, however, and as for the broken window, she would call a glazier in the morning—there were more important uses for her limited energy.

Satisfied no trace of the intruders’ presence remained, she went outside. Footprints led across the lawn to the road. A spell wiped them away. The dirty black car was parked a little way out of the village. Tracking and vanishing it used up the last of Tarian’s reserves.

The sun was rising when she closed the front door behind her, staggered up the stairs, and flung herself fully clothed onto her bed. She let her eyelids close, and slept the sleep of the exhausted.

A tongue licked her awake, and the smell of dog breath was strong in her nostrils. She let out an exclamation and pushed Anwar away. A glance at the alarm clock showed she had been asleep barely an hour. Belatedly her senses kicked in. If she hadn’t been so deeply asleep, the strong prickling sensation would have woken her.

Someone is at the back door. A Fae.

She hurried downstairs, running a hand through dishevelled hair, and wondered if Einion had returned. It wasn’t her old friend standing on the doorstep, though. Tarian recognised the stern-faced woman in the simple blue gown with a girdle at her waist. Her heart sank. “Garan.”

The Fae bowed her head in greeting. “I bring a message from Queen Mab.”

A loud caw drew Tarian’s eyes to the top branch of the hawthorn. The crow was back. She narrowed her eyes at it before returning her attention to Garan. “What Mab says no longer interests me.”

Garan’s eyebrows rose. “Have the laws of hospitality been suspended? May the Queen’s messenger not come in and be made welcome?”

Tarian sighed and stepped back, allowing her visitor into the kitchen. Garan didn’t say anything as she took in her surroundings. The slight sniff, the disdainful glance said it all. Drysi and Anwar watched her from the door, their manner wary.

Garan pulled out a chair and sat down. Tarian joined her and drummed her fingers on the kitchen table.

“The message,” she prompted.

Garan’s gaze turned inwards and she recited from memory: “I, Queen Mab, sole ruler of Faerie, do hereby pardon Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk for her past transgressions. Henceforth, her sentence of banishment is lifted. I command her to return to Faerie and assume the post of Royal Champion once more.”

Tarian stared at her. “What?”

Garan’s gaze shifted to her. “Was I unclear?”

“No.” Tarian kicked back her chair and stood up. “But we made a solemn and binding agreement, Mab and I. As far as I am concerned, it still holds.”

“And as far as she is concerned, it is void.” Garan cocked her head and waited for Tarian to make her next move.

“I don’t care.” She began to pace. “Mab knew my reasons for leaving. Those haven’t changed. I haven’t changed.”

It was Garan’s turn to drum her fingers on the table. “After the bloody events of last night, the Queen takes a different view.”

Tarian stopped pacing. “Last night?” That crow has been spying on me again.

“Even though those you killed were mere mortals,” Garan sniffed, “it is evident you still take pleasure in the fight.”

Tarian didn’t deny the charge. In the heat of the moment she had enjoyed the violence, the race to strike her opponent first and avoid serious injury herself. It was only afterwards, when Cassie was regarding her with horror, she remembered that for mortals a fatal blow was indeed fatal. Once she would have thought that fact of little relevance or value, but having lived among mortals for two years . . .

But they would have killed Cassie. “I was defending a mortal.”

“Your reasons are irrelevant.”

Tarian slammed her hands down on the kitchen table, and leaned forward. “I will not go back.” Garan blinked at her. “My life is here. And Mab is no longer part of it.”

“That is your reply?”

Tarian nodded.

Garan got to her feet. “Very well. I will convey it to the Queen.” She crossed to the back door, then stopped and looked back. The formal messenger’s mask had gone and now she spoke as one Fae to another. “She won’t like it.”

Tarian sighed. “I know.”

“YOU’RE QUIET THIS morning, dear. Everything all right?”

The landlady was studying her, Cassie realised. She forced a smile. “I’m fine, thanks. Just tired. I didn’t sleep very well.” She didn’t mention why sleep had been elusive, the images of death and carnage that kept surfacing.

“She fed you all right, then?” Liz began to clear away the breakfast dishes. Cassie had only picked at her bacon and eggs.

Fed me? Cassie gathered her scattered wits. “Oh. Yes. Boar casserole. It was very nice.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “She showed me round her studio too.” Before it became a crime scene.

Tarian had said forensics would find no trace, but that wasn’t possible, surely. Not for a human.

Cassie climbed the stairs to her bedroom in a daze and gazed at her reflection as she brushed her teeth. Her face was pale, her eyes dull and panicked.

An image of the heavy spear protruding from the man’s chest surfaced, and she shoved it aside. Maybe I’m going crazy. Maybe nothing happened the way I remember. Maybe . . . Who the hell knows?

She put the wet toothbrush back in the beaker and wiped her mouth on the towel. The best thing to do was to confront her fear. She should go back to Tarian’s house and see for herself. If something really had happened last night, if it hadn’t all been some weird nightmare brought on by a dose of food poisoning, there’d be evidence. But what would she do if there was?

She felt the urge to surround herself with the mundane. She would go shopping. But a chime of church bells put paid to that idea—in Bourn’s Edge the shops weren’t open on Sunday.

She went to her bedroom window and peered out. Several of the villagers dressed in their Sunday bests, among them Cath the postmistress and Dr. Reynolds, were hurrying up the road. On impulse, she shrugged her jacket on and hurried downstairs to join them.

“Going out?” called Liz, as she passed the open kitchen door.

“Thought I’d go to church.” Then Cassie was out the front door, through the garden gate, and following the worshippers streaming by ones and twos towards the shabby spire.

It was years since she had been to church, and it had been a different denomination. But she needn’t have worried about not knowing the ropes. As she ventured into the cool of the interior, Dr. Reynolds in his role as usher handed her a hymnbook and pointed to an empty pew. She nodded her thanks and sank onto it. No sooner had she sat down, though, than everyone else in the congregation stood up.

Simon Wright took his place in the pulpit. And after a brief prayer, the service got underway. Afterwards, Cassie didn’t remember much about it, except that she hadn’t disgraced herself. It was a matter of doing what everyone else did, standing then sitting, murmuring the required responses, singing the vaguely familiar hymns as best she could. But all the time her mind was engaged elsewhere.

Oh Lord, don’t let me be mad, she prayed. And please don’t let Tarian be some kind of demon. For some reason this last point was important to her. Her instincts had told her the artist was a friend. And hadn’t Tarian saved her life? But she was so savage about it, so primitive.

Shut up, she told herself. When the bald man sitting next to her in the pew turned to her in surprise, she realised she must have spoken aloud. “Sorry,” she whispered, embarrassed.

The ritual of the service did help to calm her, though, and by its end she had plucked up courage to walk to Tarian’s house and ask her for the truth.

She shook hands with the vicar, who said how pleased he was to see her, and stepped outside, then stopped in surprise. Just outside the porch stood a tall stranger in a russet-coloured tunic and breeches and a cloak of forest green. A scabbarded sword hung at his right hip. Stranger than his quasi-medieval clothing was the fact that no one else seemed aware of him or the horses whose reins he held.

Cassie turned to ask Reverend Wright who the man was, but he was stroking his beard, deep in conversation with a parishioner.

“Only you can see or hear me,” came the stranger’s voice, deep and full of amusement. He gestured, his hand tracing some symbol in the air.

She couldn’t move. “Help!” she cried out, or tried to; no sound emerged.

“Hush.” He led the two horses to her side. “Be easy.” He brushed her cheek with slender fingers. “Don’t be afraid. You’re the Queen’s prisoner now, and none dare hurt you for fear of retribution.”

The Queen?

Gripping Cassie around the waist, and with no apparent sign of effort, he lifted her into one of the saddles. After arranging her limbs, hair, and clothing to his satisfaction, he tied her wrists to the saddle’s pommel and stood back to assess the result. Then he mounted the other horse and reached for her horse’s reins. And all the while, members of the congregation came and went, oblivious to what was happening right under their noses.

Unable to do anything else, Cassie committed the stranger’s details to memory. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing a pale, clean-shaven face. The blackness of his hair and the slight tilt to his eyes reminded her of Tarian. In fact, now she came to think of it, he could have stepped straight out of one of Tarian’s paintings.

A click of his tongue urged his horse into motion. Her mount followed his, and they trotted up the High Street, past the garage. Two trainer-clad feet poked out from under Cassie’s car, which now sported a new bumper. Mike must work on Sundays. She tried to shout out to the mechanic, but as before no sound emerged.

Whatever her abductor had done to paralyse her was selective. She could still breathe and blink her eyelids, for example, and her heart was beating steadily. Which was odd, come to think of it. She should be terrified out of her wits, yet she felt calm.

He looked back at Cassie, before facing front once more. They rode past Tarian’s house up the hill towards the forest. When the stile came into view, he dug his heels in and headed straight for it. Her mount picked up speed too and she was thankful her hands were bound to the pommel or she would have fallen off. Then she was airborne, and if she could have she would have held her breath. It seemed to take forever before her horse’s hooves had cleared the battered wooden stile, but it was probably mere seconds before the jarring landing. Once more he checked that she was all right before proceeding on at a trot.

They had gone only a little way along the public footpath when he slowed the horses to a walk and branched off, taking the game trail she had taken previously. Gloom descended as the trees closed in on either side and the sounds of the forest faded. Twigs tried to scratch her face and branches threatened to sweep her from her saddle, but she was unable to hunch down to avoid them. He gestured and muttered something, and after that it was almost as though the branches were bending away from her to allow her free passage.

A loud caw from the forest canopy above startled her. The man with the ponytail shaded his eyes and looked up then waved a gloved hand at a large crow, as if in greeting.

One more impossibility, thought Cassie.

At last, they emerged into a sun-dappled clearing. A massive oak tree took pride of place on one side, and eight feet from it stood an imposing ash tree. He guided his horse towards the gap between the trees, and a strange sensation like the buzzing of bees or the prickle of electricity crawled over her, growing stronger the closer they got. As her horse passed between the trees, the sensation vanished. So did Bourn Forest.

Oh, it was still forest, that much was plain, Cassie thought, as she took in her surroundings as best she could, but it was . . . “Different” was the best word she could come up with. The rough clearing had become a glade full of woodland flowers where bees buzzed. And the trees here, wherever “here” was, were taller, thinner, and in leaf. The air was balmy too, warm as midsummer and with a honeysuckle tang to it. The birds sang louder and more tunefully.

The game trail had become a bridle track and no longer sloped uphill. As they rode along it, Cassie puzzled over her growing feeling of déjà vu. Then it came to her. Tarian’s paintings.

She was thinking about that when crashing noises and the waving of branches drew her attention to the undergrowth ten yards ahead. Both horses became skittish, and the man reined in at once. He was just in time, for several animals, two large followed by three small, crossed the trail in front of them. Cassie had time to register the large heads and small hindquarters, the thick, bristly red-brown coats and wicked-looking tusks, then the family of wild boar disappeared into the undergrowth.

The crashing sounds were already fading into the distance when he urged his horse into motion. A few minutes later, they emerged into the open, into daylight softer and more muted than she was used to. She heard the unmistakeable cry of a hawk and spied it circling high above.

Her abductor turned in his saddle and grinned. “Behold.” He gestured with one gloved hand. “Mab’s domain.”

Cassie blinked at the lush parkland and sparkling lakes, and the imposing structure standing in their midst. No squat ugly castle with thick walls and a drawbridge for this Mab person, it seemed. White pennants fluttered from six impossibly tall and delicate turrets, and light glittered off the countless windows that peppered a palace made of white marble and glass.

Pleased with the impression her surroundings had made on her, he urged his horse into motion again. They rode through pastures dotted with clover and buttercup, past herds of red deer that looked at them before tamely resuming their grazing. Up to the arched gates they went, then through them into a spacious courtyard, where two stable boys stopped what they were doing and hurried forward to take their horses.

“Lord Einion.” The first boy bowed and held Cassie’s horse steady while Einion dismounted, freed her hands from the pommel, and lifted her down.

He carried her up the steps and into the palace. Inability to move thwarted Cassie’s attempts to look about her, but she caught glimpses of a high ceiling, tall windows of stained glass, richly decorated wall hangings, and furniture carved with leaf patterns and stylised representations of woodland animals. He halted in an inner chamber and placed her on herb- and rush-strewn flagstones.

An elderly wolfhound came to investigate but a woman’s autocratic voice called, “Olwydd,” and he stopped nosing her and padded away.

“This puny creature is the one?” continued the voice. “She is plain. Much too short. Her skin too brown, her hair too fair.”

“Yet she is the one, your majesty,” said Einion.

Cassie wished she could see who was insulting her—from that “your majesty,” it must be the Queen. What had he called her—Mab? Then her paralysis disappeared and the terror that had been held at bay surged through her and she began to tremble.

“And weak. See how the mortal trembles. How could any self-respecting Fae feel anything but pity or disdain? Are you sure there is no mistake?”

Fae? Cassie pounced on the word. Does that mean this is Faerie? Suddenly everything began to make sense. Tarian isn’t a demon, she realised with a rush of relief. She’s one of the Fae.

At last she managed to regain control of herself, enough to roll over onto her side and prop herself up on one arm.

At the far end of the room, in front of a flickering fire, was an outsize throne. In it sat a regal-looking woman in a silk gown of the deepest violet that clung to her in all the right places. Her hair was raven black, and she wore it long and flowing, held in place by a simple silver circlet. The milk white face beneath the circlet was proud and very beautiful. One long-fingered hand rested on the throne’s arm, the other fondled the ears of the wolfhound. To one side, on a wooden perch, sat a large crow observing proceedings.

Dark eyes as keen as a hawk’s raked Cassie from head to toe. “Tarian would defy me for this?”

Mab was clearly furious, and Cassie braced herself for the worst. But instead of blasting her to smithereens, the woman let out a peal of laughter. The abrupt change of mood made the hairs on the back of Cassie’s neck stand up.

“Good,” said Mab. “Let us see if we can convince her to return.”

Chapter 8

Tarian was lost in her painting when she became aware she had visitors. That prickling sensation was unmistakable. She extended her senses until she found its cause. A group of Fae was waiting in her back garden. They had horses with them.

She put down her palette, placed the brush in a jar of water, and went through to the kitchen. Anwar and Drysi whined. “I know,” she told them. “It can’t be good.”

She took a breath, opened the door, and stepped out. Four riders, two men and two women, were waiting by the hawthorn tree. Garan was one of them. The others were nobles from Mab’s court. They were dressed as though for the hunt, wearing grey cloaks and carrying light spears. Two of the horses shifted and sidestepped, betraying their riders’ nervousness.

Am I to be their prey? The dogs pressed against Tarian’s legs, and she stroked their heads.

“The Queen sent us to fetch you.” Garan indicated the spare mount: a black horse with a white blaze on its forehead.

Tarian frowned. “She had my answer. What makes her think I’ll change my mind?”

“Since we spoke there has been a development. The mortal is Mab’s prisoner.”

Tarian’s mouth went dry. “Which mortal?” But she already knew the answer.

“Cassie Lewis.”

“Is she unharmed?” She must be terrified.

Garan nodded. “And the Queen gives you her word that she will remain so if you come with us.”

Her word, thought Tarian bleakly. On past evidence, what good is that? “I would be breaking our agreement.”

“Have you forgotten already?” said Garan. “That agreement is now void.”

Tarian balled her hands into fists. It was her fault that Cassie had attracted the Queen’s attention. What had possessed her? On a whim she had decided to play protector, because it amused her, because she could. And last night she had seen the results. Cassie’s feelings had been all too clear, and they were not the gratitude and admiration Tarian had been hoping for—she could admit it now. That had been chastening enough. Now this.

She could not, would not, permit Cassie to pay for her self-indulgence. No doubt Mab knew that. She had always been a superlative chess player.

“Very well,” she growled. At her answer, the tension dissipated, and the riders broke into smiles.

Tarian considered whether to fetch her bow, but it would make little difference. She pulled the kitchen door closed behind her and strode over to the waiting Fae. Garan handed her the black horse’s reins. Tarian put her foot in the stirrup and mounted up.

Two of the Fae wheeled their horses round and started towards the trees that abutted Tarian’s garden. Tarian kicked her horse into a walk and followed them, Anwar and Drysi trotting on either side. The remaining Fae brought up the rear.

As they entered the forest, each rider slowed and leaned forward in the saddle to avoid the overhanging branches. Tarian gave the house where she had spent the past two years a last wistful look, then she leaned forward too.

CASSIE’S BUTTOCKS HAD gone numb. She shifted into a more comfortable position on the grass. Her hands were bound in front of her, but otherwise the Fae were treating her well. They had even given her something to eat and drink. At first she had been reluctant to accept—she knew her fairytales—but Einion had sworn such tales were ill informed at best, fabrication at worst. In the end she had been so hungry she risked it—she had no idea what time it was but it seemed an age since breakfast. He’d given her a slab of crusty bread, cold sliced meats, some of which might be boar, and sweet pastries that melted on the tongue, then grabbed a jug of mead and two cups and escorted her outdoors to the meadow at the rear of the palace.

Einion caught her studying him and arched an eyebrow. She gestured towards the rectangular area of daisy-dotted grass a few feet away. It had been roped off and at either end small gaily-coloured pavilions had been erected. Round its perimeter servants were placing rugs and low stools. Two panting servants carried a red velvet chair across the grass and set it down in a spot with a good view.

“What’s the occasion?”

“A contest,” said Einion.

Gorgeously clad courtiers, some accompanied by wolfhounds, were gathering, gravitating towards the rugs and stools, greeting one another and exchanging pleasantries. There was a palpable sense of anticipation in the air.

“What kind?”

He sipped from his cup before answering. “Whatever Mab decrees. More mead?” Cassie shook her head. It was much too sweet for her taste.

“Who are the contestants?”

“Mab’s champions.”

“And why must I watch?”

“Because Mab commands it.”

A group of nobles settled on stools a few feet to her right. From their stares and muffled asides she knew she must be the topic of conversation.

“I feel like a monkey in the zoo.”

“They mean you no harm.” Einion frowned. “I’m not sure the same can be said of him, however.”

“Him?” Cassie followed his gaze to the entrance flap of one of the pavilions where a Fae, the most muscular she had seen, was standing, deep in conversation.

“Cadel.” He glanced at her. “Queen’s Champion for the past two years.”

“So he’s one of the contestants?”

Einion nodded.

She’d been wondering if she was imagining the faint drumming of horses’ hooves, but just then some horsemen galloped up. Her eyes flew to the only rider not wearing a grey cloak. If she hadn’t recognised that striking profile, the paint-spattered grey sweatshirt, blue jeans, and the two wolfhounds with her would have given the identity of the rider away.

Her heart thumped. “What’s Tarian doing here?” He didn’t answer.

As though she had heard Cassie, Tarian glanced in her direction. She leaned down and said something to her dogs, and they peeled off and bounded towards Cassie.

“Hello, you two.” She fended off their greeting as best she could with her hands bound, but not before she had had her face licked. She found she was very glad to see them.

They flopped down on the grass beside her. With a possessive air, the male dog—Anwar wasn’t it?—rested one paw on her leg. Drysi gave the nobles sitting close by a baleful look and drew back her lips from her teeth. They frowned and shifted their stools a few yards further away. Gratitude suffused Cassie as it dawned on her that Tarian had told the dogs to protect her.

The grey-cloaked riders dismounted and ushered Tarian inside the pavilion before dispersing. Something Mab had said earlier came back to Cassie and made her stomach lurch.

“She’s here because of me, isn’t she? Mab took me hostage to force her to come back.”

Einion nodded. “Tarian has never before allowed herself to become entangled in a mortal’s affairs. Mab saw her chance and seized it.”

“So she’s going to fight Cadel? But that’s ridiculous. How can she possibly win against the Queen’s Champion?”

He smiled. “You wouldn’t think it to look at them, but they’re evenly matched. Before Cadel, Tarian was Mab’s champion.”

Cassie gaped at him. No wonder Tarian had been able to despatch Armitage’s men so easily. “But why?” He looked confused at her question. “I mean why now? What’s changed?”

He considered. “Boredom?”

She glanced at the muscled Fae. “With Cadel?”

“He was never going to be able to erase Tarian from Mab’s memory. They were the perfect match. Tarian’s bloodlust and battle lust almost outstripped the Queen’s.”

Cassie blinked. “They were lovers?”

Einion smiled, remembering. “For a while. Mab enjoyed taming Tarian, being tamed by her.” His smile dimmed. “But Tarian grew weary of their constant arguments, their battles of wits. Her bloodlust waned, but Mab’s did not. Tarian tried to find another way, distanced herself.” He sighed. “And in so doing, she hurt and angered the Queen.”

“What happened?”

“Exile.” He shrugged. “It was that or unmake her. But Mab loved her too much for that.”

“And that was, what, two years ago?”

He nodded. “After Tarian, Cadel was restful, straightforward. He’s a man of simple needs—a battle, a fuck, a feast—he likes nothing better. At first Mab found him refreshing, but now . . .”

Cassie could see where this was leading. “Let me guess. She wants Tarian back?” Anwar moved his paw on her leg, and she ruffled his coat with her fingers.

“She does.” Einion grimaced. “Those of us who are her friend as well as subject have tried to make the Queen see that it’s a lost cause. She won’t believe it, but in the end she surely must.”

“What will happen then?”

“I fear this time she will unmake Tarian.”

Cassie felt a jolt of alarm. “You keep talking about unmaking. What do you mean?”

The gaze he turned on her was grave. “We are not like your kind, Cassie Lewis. The Fae cannot die, they must be unmade. And in Faerie, the Queen alone wields that power.”

TARIAN LOOKED UP as the Queen and her page entered the pavilion, Olwydd padding at their heels. The wolfhound recognised Tarian at once and came over to greet her, but Mab called him away. With a mournful look, the dog obeyed.

Tarian gave a perfunctory bow and continued dressing.

“Just like old times,” said Mab.

She grunted and straightened her tunic.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Mab’s eyes danced. “You know you’ve missed me. Deep down, you’re glad to be back.” She gestured, and her page scurried across the tent, grabbed one of the two stools, and carried it back to her. She nodded her thanks, smoothed her gown over her thighs, and sat down.

“We had an agreement,” growled Tarian, buckling her belt.

Mab pretended to be puzzled. “Yet here you are.” She gestured to her page again. He hurried to the trestle table in one corner and began to pour mead from a ewer into a cup.

“Only because you took Cassie Lewis hostage.” Tarian sat on a stool and pulled on one of the soft leather boots before reaching for its mate.

Mab accepted the cup from her page and gave Tarian an arch look. “Do you expect me to believe you came back to save a mere mortal?” She sipped her mead.

“Yes.” She stamped her feet into the boots until they felt comfortable. “Because it’s true.”

The Queen laughed. “If I believed that, you would indeed no longer be the Tarian I knew.”

“Believe it.”

Mab’s smile vanished. “Have a care, Tarian. To prize the welfare of a mortal above that of one’s Queen is treason. And we both know the penalty for that.”

Olwydd stopped licking his privates and snapped at a fly that had been buzzing around the tent.

Tarian folded her arms and regarded Mab. “Why are you doing this?”

“I would have thought that was obvious. I want you back.” The Queen gestured at Tarian’s attire. “There. Doesn’t that feel better?”

“No,” said Tarian. “Let the mortal go, Mab.”

“Why should I?”

“Because she’s done nothing to hurt you or any of the Fae. And because I ask it.”

“Nothing, you say.” Mab swirled mead round her mouth before swallowing it. “This Cassie,” she spoke the name with obvious distaste, “captured your attention enough that that you fought in her defence.” Her eyes flashed with the rage Tarian remembered, and she knocked over the stool as she stood up. The page scurried to right it but Mab waved him away. “My champion fighting to defend another, and a mortal at that!” Reacting to his mistress’s mood, Olwydd rose, his gaze flicking between Mab and Tarian. His hackles rose and his lips drew back from his teeth.

After two years, she’s as jealous as ever, realised Tarian with a jolt. “I’m no longer your champion, your majesty,” she reminded. “Cadel holds that position.”

“Not for much longer.” As swiftly as it had departed, the Queen’s good mood returned, and she smiled. Olwydd padded over to sniff something interesting in the corner of the pavilion.

Tarian bit her lip. It was as she had feared when she entered the pavilion and found some of her old clothes laid out ready for her. “Am I to fight Cadel?”

“Of course.”

“And if I refuse?”

Mab played with her girdle then looked up. Her eyes had gone hard. “The mortal dies.”

“Very well. I will fight your contest.”

Mab clapped her hands. “I knew you’d see sense.”

Tarian grunted. “Who has the choice of weapons?”

“I do.” Mab flashed her a smile.

“And the prize?”

The Queen’s smile became tinged with cruelty. “The mortal, of course.”

The thought of Cassie in Cadel’s clutches made Tarian feel ill. Mortals were such fragile creatures. “You would give her to that savage?”

Mab gave her an arch look. “My dear Tarian. He’s no more savage than you are.”

Perhaps that was true of me once, but now . . . “Answer me, Mab. Would you truly give her to him?”

The Queen pouted. “Oh don’t make me out to be so heartless.” She crossed to the tent flap then turned and looked back at Tarian while Olwydd hurried to catch up with her. “After all, her fate hangs in your hands not mine.”

Chapter 9

Cassie watched the Queen of the Fae emerge from Tarian’s pavilion, her wolfhound at her heels, and make her way towards the plush red throne set ready for her on the grass. Since their last meeting, she had changed into a green satin gown embroidered with yellow silk, and a delicate silver girdle encircled her waist. She acknowledged the bows and curtseys with a wave and a smiling nod before taking her seat.

“She’s in a good mood,” muttered Einion. “Tarian must have agreed.”

“To fight Cadel?”

He nodded. “The Queen can be very persuasive.”

I bet. Cassie pursed her lips. “What weapons will they use?”

“That’s up to Mab.” He held up a hand for quiet and strained to hear the instructions the Queen was giving to a liveried herald and a page. The page bowed and darted off, and the herald strutted into the centre of the arena. As he did so, the flaps of each pavilion were thrown back and their occupants emerged.

A cheer went up as the two combatants took their places on either side of the herald. Tarian’s forest green tunic and the tan breeches tucked into her boots made her look like the Fae she was. Cassie wondered why she had not seen it before. Because we see what we expect to see, I suppose. And since I didn’t know that the Fae exist, how could I possible imagine one was living as an artist in Bourn’s Edge?

Something odd struck her. “Shouldn’t they be wearing armour?”

“Only a coward would,” said Einion. “Wounds are an integral part of such contests. After all, we can use our magic to heal ourselves.”

“I see. But . . . they’re unarmed too.”

“Not for long.” He pointed, and Cassie saw that the page had returned, and with him were two servants each carrying a pile of weapons. She squinted and made out spears, a bow and quiver full of arrows, and something that looked like a short wooden handle with a nasty-looking spiked metal ball attached to it by a length of chain. Einion’s face fell.

“What is it?” asked Cassie.

“A morning star. Tarian’s least favourite weapon, as Mab is well aware.”

Movement drew their attention back to the herald, who had puffed out his chest and was preparing to speak. “Your Majesty, my lords and ladies,” he announced, his rich baritone ringing out around the arena. “Today we shall witness an event rare in the annals of Faerie: a battle of champions. Today the Queen’s current champion, Cadel son of Clud son of Morthwyl, will compete against her former champion, Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk.”

Loud applause met his words. He smiled and nodded acknowledgement. “The contest will consist of two trials. If by their conclusion no clear winner has emerged, a further trial of single combat will decide the victor.”

“Sounds exhausting,” murmured Cassie, before Einion shushed her.

“Queen Mab herself has chosen the weapons: spears, bows, and morning stars.” The herald glanced at Tarian and Cadel to make sure he had their full attention. “She has also decreed that any combatant caught using magic before the contest’s conclusion will forfeit the contest—”

A murmur rippled through the spectators, and Einion hissed, “No magic? This could get bloody.”

“—and thus the prize,” finished the herald.

One of the watching nobles, who had had more mead than was good for him, shouted out, “That’s all very well, but what is the prize?”

The herald puffed out his chest again. “To the victor goes the mortal hostage.” He pointed at Cassie, and every head turned to look at her. “To do with as they please.”

“Me?” yelped Cassie, her heart thumping. She turned to Einion. “They can’t do that, can they?”

“Mab can do whatever she wants.”

Her gaze tracked back to Cadel, and her mouth went dry. “Evenly matched, you said?”

He nodded.

“You forgot something, herald,” shouted Mab. “The victor will also have the grateful thanks and undying affection of their Queen.” She grinned. “Not to be sniffed at, eh?”

The Queen’s sally provoked appreciative laughter from her courtiers and a scowl from her muscular champion. Tarian, meanwhile, stood stone-faced. Cassie wondered what she was thinking.

A cold nose pushed itself into her palm—Drysi trying to comfort her—and a disquieting thought struck her. Tarian ordered her dogs to protect me. Was that because she was confident she would win, or because she thought she wouldn’t?

TARIAN EYED THE grey gelding a page had brought her. A fine looking beast, but did his intelligence match his good looks? She mounted up, grasped the reins, and walked him round a bit. His mouth was sensitive, and he responded to her slightest command. She found herself grinning. Though it had been two years since she last sat on a horse, it was as though she had never been away.

That thought wiped the smile from her face. This is what Mab wants me to feel. She glanced to where the Queen sat talking to some of her courtiers, then away again.

Cassie was sitting on the other side of the roped-off sward, and Tarian was glad to see Drysi and Anwar flanking her. She was also glad Einion was her escort. That Mab had assigned her old friend to the task gave her some comfort. Einion was loyal to the Queen, but he was also fair-minded and would protect Cassie from any taunting from the more unruly nobles, especially those with a grudge against mortals.

“Is the mount acceptable?” The page was looking up at her.

She nodded, and with a relieved look he stepped back to allow through a servant carrying a sheaf of spears—not the heavy boar spear with the cross guard she had hanging in her hall, but light throwing spears. She took one, hefted it to test its balance, shook her head, and selected another. This one felt right, so she nodded acceptance and wheeled her mount round to see whether Cadel was ready yet.

Like her, the big Fae was now on horseback, clutching a spear. His chestnut stallion was a lot larger than the gelding, but then he weighed a lot more too. She didn’t mind. Spear throwing wasn’t about size or even power but about skill.

“The rules are simple,” announced the herald from the sidelines. “Behold,” he gestured, “the target.”

A portable gibbet had been wheeled into the arena, and from its crossbeam hung a small, circular target made of straw. It had been marked with three concentric circles—the outermost dyed blue, the next red, and the innermost yellow.

“Each contestant will have three spears. You must throw each one before you pass that marker.” Again the herald pointed. Ten paces from the gibbet, a servant had thrust into the turf a short staff from which hung a white pennant, fluttering fitfully. “If the spear misses the target or fails to remain embedded, no points will be awarded. Otherwise: a hit in the blue circle scores 1 point; in the red, 2 points; and in the yellow, 3 points. The Queen’s current champion will go first.”

The herald turned to the servant standing next to the straw circle and signalled. The man set the target swinging and ran for it.

Cadel hefted his spear and kicked his stallion into a gallop. He had almost reached the pennant when he launched his spear. Tarian watched it fly towards the moving target. So certain was he of his aim, he didn’t stop to watch it hit, but wheeled the chestnut round and cantered back towards Tarian. Only when the watching courtiers began to clap and cheer did he raise his hand in casual acknowledgment and twist in the saddle to check the outcome. The spear’s tip was embedded deep in the straw, right in the heart of the yellow bull’s-eye.

She cursed under her breath. He had made it look much simpler than it was. A steady eye and a strong hand were not enough for this event. The rider had to keep an eye focussed on the swinging target, coordinate the movement of both hand and horse, and throw at just the right moment. She hoped her skills and instincts had not atrophied in the past two years. Well, she would soon see.

“Three points to Cadel,” announced the herald.

The servant hurried to halt the straw circle and tug the spear free. Tarian waited for him to set the target in motion once more and stand clear. Then she kicked her horse into motion and hefted the spear. As her mount thundered towards the pennant, sending clods of turf flying, she stood up in her stirrups, pulled back her right arm, and narrowed her attention until her whole world was the circle of straw swinging like a pendulum.

She held her breath and waited until the moment felt right. Now.

Her back and shoulders were in the throw, and as soon as her fingers had released the spear, she sat back in the saddle and reined in the grey. Unlike Cadel, she watched the spear’s trajectory. Sunlight glinted off metal as it flew towards its target, and stuck, still quivering, in the red circle. She cursed under her breath as polite applause met the strike.

“Two points to Tarian,” announced the herald.

Cadel curled his lip at her as she rode back to pick up another spear. She ignored him. There were still two throws to go.

Cheers and claps met his next throw, which once more found the yellow bull’s-eye. Tarian blotted out the distraction, took a more comfortable grip on the spear’s shaft, and readied herself. She had misjudged the target’s path last time, left her throw a fraction too late. She would not make the same mistake again. She kicked the grey into a gallop, stood up in the stirrups, and drew back her arm. As she thundered over the turf, her eyes were fixed on the target, her arm a coiled spring.

Almost, her instincts told her. Almost. Now.

As she threw, a flash of bright light blinded her. She couldn’t help but flinch, and was still blinking aside the afterimages when she heard the herald announce, “In the red again. Two points.”

By Oak, Ash, and Thorn! I’m lucky I even hit the target.

The flash had come from the group of courtiers standing near Cadel’s pavilion: sunlight reflecting off something shiny—a silver buckle, a goblet . . . It could have been an accident, but she didn’t think so. She gave the courtiers a hard look then, aware of Mab’s keen gaze, rode back to collect her third and final spear.

Cadel’s horse thundered past her, as he came in for his final throw, and she turned to watch him go. Perhaps it was carelessness or complacency on his part, or perhaps it was due to the presence of a large divot under hoof. Whatever the cause, Cadel was nearing the pennant when his stallion stumbled, unbalancing him. Even so, his spear managed to hit the target, though it struck the red circle rather than the yellow.

A round of applause went up. Most of those watching hadn’t noticed that Cadel had hurled his spear when he was a fraction past the pennant, but Tarian had. She wondered what would happen next.

The herald gestured for quiet and stood up. “Disqualified,” he announced. “No points.”

“What?” Cadel’s bellow of outrage made Tarian grin. “What do you mean, disqualified?”

“You threw after the pennant, not before,” said the herald. He looked at Mab for support. “The rules are quite clear on that point, your majesty.” She nodded her approval, and Cadel had no choice but to fall silent.

Still grumbling, he rode back to the starting point, dismounted, and thrust the stallion’s reins into a page’s hand. Then he folded his arms and jutted his jaw, and glared at Tarian as though daring her to do her worst. She couldn’t resist it. She winked at him, earning a scowl. Suddenly his six-point total didn’t seem so out of reach.

“Lady?”

The page was holding up two spears. She took one, weighed it, and nodded. “This will do.”

It was time to see if she could put into practice what she had once known and had had to relearn in the previous two throws. Mindful of how close she herself had been getting to the pennant, she reined in the grey a little on this final run. Then the moment was here, and she hurled the spear with all her might. The throw was a good one, straight and true, and she was sure it was heading for the bull’s-eye, but at the last moment a gust of wind came up out of nowhere, and once more her spear point struck the red circle and hung there quivering.

Boar droppings!

Tarian cast a suspicious glance towards the Queen. While the combatants were forbidden to use magic, the Queen was not, and she had a suspicion Mab was playing with her. A bland smile met her stare. She could make a public accusation, she supposed, but what good would it do her? At least she hadn’t lost the bout.

As she rode back to the start, the herald announced, “Two points to Tarian. Each contestant has earned six points. I declare this trial a draw.”

Cadel’s scowl had been replaced by a smile, she saw, as she dismounted and flexed her throwing arm to work the stiffness out of her elbow. She sighed, sank onto a stool, and beckoned a page over.

“Fetch me a cup of mead, will you?” He nodded and scampered away.

CASSIE GNAWED A thumbnail. Where are the butts?

Tarian and Cadel had each been given a short bow. Pushed into the turf at their feet were ten arrows, Tarian’s fletched with red feathers, the Queen’s champion with green.

Or are they going to use the same target they used in the spear throwing? Two servants in the Queen’s livery began to wheel the gibbet and battered straw target away. Evidently not.

As they unhooked the rope boundary and pushed the gibbet through, two more servants hurried in the opposite direction. They were each carrying a crate, and judging by the air holes in the sides, the crates contained livestock.

Drysi and Anwar stopped using Cassie’s thigh as a pillow and sat up. Drysi whined in the back of her throat, stood up, and sat down again. Clearly she wanted to investigate the crates but wouldn’t leave Cassie’s side. Anwar growled at his mate, and she gave a very human sounding sigh, and rested her head on her paws.

Cassie stroked Drysi’s head. “Good girl.” She turned to Einion. “What’s in the crates?”

He grinned. “Wait and see.”

“I just hope Tarian’s archery is better than her spear throwing.” She paused. “I sound like an ungrateful bitch, don’t I?”

Einion shrugged. “With reason. Some would say you would not be a prisoner if it weren’t for Tarian.”

Cassie snorted. “We’re even then. Because she wouldn’t have been forced to return to Faerie if it weren’t for me.”

Her reply made him blink. “Such greatness of heart.” He became thoughtful. “Perhaps that is why . . .”

“Why what?”

He seemed in two minds whether to answer then he shrugged. “The Tarian I knew cared little for others’ welfare. And you are a mere mortal. She must have changed more than I realised.”

She ignored the insult implicit in his words. “You knew her?”

“We were friends.” She waited, but Einion didn’t elaborate. “Look. They are about to start,” he said.

At the herald’s signal, the two servants removed the lids and tipped the crates on their sides. Out of them tumbled rabbits. Lots of them.

What’s the collective noun? wondered Cassie. A warren? A colony? She had looked it up at the library for a member of the public once, but she couldn’t remember the answer. There were twenty of them at least. Not the large, tame, white ones that children kept in hutches in their back gardens either, but brown, wiry little beasts with plenty of running in them. The rabbits scattered in all directions, and Tarian and Cadel each nocked an arrow to their bow and took aim.

A rabbit hurtling straight for Cassie gave a high-pitched shriek as a red-fletched arrow pinned it to the turf. Another, hard on its heels, leaped over its dying companion and continued towards her. At the last minute it caught sight of the wolfhounds, now standing stiff legged and trembling with eagerness. It jinked to the right and darted past. She turned to watch it go, ducking as it occurred to her that someone trying to shoot the rabbit could hit her instead.

“They may shoot only those inside the perimeter,” reassured Einion.

“Oh.” She unhunched her shoulders and turned to see how Tarian was faring. To her amazement, the archery contest appeared to be already over. The turf bounded by the ropes was covered with dead or dying rabbits, and the herald was noting the colour of the arrow that had despatched each one. In one case, two arrows, one of each colour, sprouted from the small brown body.

“Poor things,” said Cassie. “Why couldn’t they have used a straw target?”

“They were destined for the pot.” Einion sounded indifferent. “At least this way some had a chance of escape.”

“It’s still barbaric.”

The herald completed his tally and signalled to a man in a cook’s apron. While the cook and his assistant gathered the dead rabbits into several large baskets, the herald held up his hand for silence.

“A draw,” he announced. A wave of disappointment swept through the spectators. “I assure you, lords and ladies,” he sounded defensive, “that it is indeed a draw.” He turned to the Queen in appeal. “You majesty. Is it not so?”

Mab rose from her chair and silence fell. “It is so,” she called, and the herald smiled his relief. She glanced at the two combatants.

Cadel was scowling—It seems to be his natural expression, thought Cassie—and Tarian was impassive.

“A final bout should settle this, that of single combat.” Mab turned to a page. “Fetch the morning stars.” She sat down once more.

The Queen’s words evoked a murmur of anticipation that Cassie didn’t share. Hadn’t Einion said the spiked ball on a chain wasn’t Tarian’s favourite weapon? And if so, how could she possibly win?

Chapter 10

Tarian adjusted her grip on the handle. Cold iron take it, but this thing is clumsy! Every time the heavy ball swung at the end of its chain, the weapon’s centre of gravity shifted. The trick was, if she remembered correctly, to use that to her advantage, to build up momentum by whirling the ball then to direct the accumulated energy at her opponent. It was easier said than done, however. She was as liable to spike herself as Cadel.

The big Fae didn’t seem to share her reservations. He grinned and swung his own morning star almost negligently. But his hands and wrists were larger and stronger than—

The flicker in his gaze alerted her, and she wrenched herself backwards just in time. Wicked spikes whooshed past her nose so close she could feel the slipstream. She gave herself a mental slap. Keep alert or he’ll have you.

A mass intake of breath went up from those watching, many of whom were now leaning forward on their stools. The Fae enjoyed nothing more than bloody combat, especially if they weren’t personally involved, and Mab’s expression was avid, the tip of her tongue poking out. The only person present who didn’t seem to be enjoying herself was Cassie. Her eyes were wide, and she had covered her mouth with her bound hands.

Tarian snapped her attention back to her opponent. Concentrate.

She shook the tension from her arms and shoulders, took a firmer grip on the handle, and shifted her weight forward. She began to circle Cadel. He faced her, eyes watchful.

Since she didn’t have the physical advantage, she decided to try something else. There was nothing in the rules against it. “You know why Mab’s doing this, don’t you?” she taunted, keeping her voice low so he alone could hear. “She’s tired of you. She wants me back.”

Cadel’s ball whipped down, smashing into the turf where Tarian had been standing, sending clods flying. The force of the blow drove the spikes deep, and he struggled to free them. Seizing her chance, she whipped her own ball towards him, but he was nimbler than he looked and sidestepped. She grazed his left biceps, bloodying his sleeve but doing little damage.

He bared his teeth at her and resumed his tugging. With a spattering of grass stems and soil, the spiked ball came free. Moments later it was hurtling straight at her in a blow meant to disembowel. She flung herself backwards and rolled over twice, her knees and elbows thudding on the turf, before coming to her feet again. The tunic covering her abdomen was torn; beneath it a bloody cut began to smart. If magic had been permitted, she would have healed it. Fortunately, it looked worse than it was.

Several spectators clapped and called out Cadel’s name. He puffed out his chest. Tarian resettled her grip and took up her position opposite him once more.

“Even if you win,” she said, “how long before someone else takes Mab’s fancy, and she manoeuvres them into challenging you?”

“Why should that worry me?” he said, unperturbed. “No one can beat me. And as long as that remains so, I’ll be the Queen’s champion.”

“Haven’t you worked it out yet?” She whirled her morning star round her head. “With Mab, being champion is not just about the fighting. Are you good in bed too? I was.” Her gaze raked him from head to toe. “I’d say you’re not.”

With a roar he charged, and this time Tarian wasn’t quick enough. Spikes smashed into her shoulder, sending her reeling. The agony lancing through her flared even hotter as the spikes tore free. She sank to her knees and clapped a hand to her shoulder, from which waves of agony now radiated. Sticky warmth seeped between her fingers. She clenched her jaw and tried to control the pain.

Cadel’s supporters, meanwhile, were on their feet and cheering, and he had raised his fists in victory.

Cassie’s depending on me. It took all Tarian’s strength, but she managed to get her legs under her and stagger to her feet. “The contest isn’t over yet,” she shouted.

Cadel turned to look at her in amazement, and the cheering died away.

“The rules are that I must be incapacitated or I must concede, is that not so, Herald?” called Tarian.

The herald unrolled a scroll and glanced at it. He nodded.

She stooped, the movement making her want to throw up, grabbed the morning star’s handle with her left hand, and straightened. “I—” Her voice was a husk so she cleared her throat and tried again. “I do not concede.”

“But surely,” objected the herald, “you are incapacitated. Your majesty?” He appealed to the Queen who had been frowning at Cadel’s victory but whose eyes now gleamed. “What say you?”

Mab put a finger to her lips. “Are you incapacitated, Tarian?”

She ignored the trickle between her fingers. “Not yet, your majesty.”

“Very well.” Mab turned back to the herald and gestured. “Let the contest continue.”

He gave her a respectful bow then waved to Tarian and Cadel. “Proceed.”

Once more the combatants faced one another. Cadel eyed her blood-soaked tunic with dissatisfaction. “Can you still fight me?”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I can fight as well left-handed as right.” It was almost true.

Gripping the handle in her left hand, she shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet. This was her last chance to save Cassie. She must use it wisely and well. And since using this pig of a weapon conventionally had got her nowhere . . .

That she used it left-handed may have helped. That she used the two-foot long handle rather than the ball probably added to Cadel’s confusion. Whatever the reason, when she lunged forward, grasping the handle with both hands and driving it deep into his midriff, he was unprepared.

Air whooshed from his lungs, and he doubled over. He was still trying to catch his breath when a flick of her wrist sent the heavy ball, and more importantly the chain attached to it, snaking towards his legs. His look of outrage when the links wrapped themselves around his ankles and she tugged them out from under him would have made her laugh in other circumstances. But she had no time for humour.

Let’s finish this.

She tore his own morning star from his grip, raised it, and brought the spiked-ball crashing down. The blow jarred her shoulder, and for a moment she felt light-headed. But it passed, and she straightened and regarded the bloody pulp that had been Cadel’s head.

That surely counts as incapacitated.

For a long moment there was no sound, then the spectators let out a roar of approval. Tarian dropped the morning star, which left a deep dent in the turf, and turned to accept the plaudits.

The herald was trying to get the excited Fae to calm down. When the noise had diminished to a murmur, he announced, “And the winner is: Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk.”

Gingerly, Tarian bowed to the Queen. Her shoulder was excruciating. All she wanted was to find somewhere quiet to gather her strength and heal herself.

“You have fought well, Tarian,” called Mab. “You deserve your prize.” She gestured to where Cassie was sitting, and Einion sliced the mortal’s bonds and urged her to her feet. The dogs rose too, tongues lolling. Tarian started towards them, but Mab’s next words froze her in her tracks.

“As for the loser. Let all here bear witness. Cadel has disgraced not only himself but also his Queen. Such a crime deserves the most severe of punishments. I will unmake him and appoint Tarian champion in his stead.” She raised her hand and pointed a long finger at Cadel.

The dishonour of it shocked Tarian. “No!” she blurted, positioning herself in front of the supine Fae and wondering even as she did so why she was defying the most powerful woman in Faerie. It wasn’t as if she owed Cadel anything.

Mab’s smile dimmed. “I am your Queen, Tarian. I can do what I like.”

“It would not be just, your majesty. For he fought fair.” If you discount that flash of light during the spear throwing. “‘Concede or be incapacitated,’ those were the terms. And see.” She gestured with her good arm. “He is incapacitated.”

Tarian turned to the herald to back her up, but he seemed too petrified to speak. With a scowl at him, she ploughed on. “Cadel has served you well for two years, your majesty, both in your bed and on the battlefield. He deserves gratitude and healing at your hand, not death. And you know full well I have no desire to resume the post I relinquished. Let me take my prize and go, I beg you.”

“Beg me?” said Mab. Every shred of good humour had disappeared, turning her beautiful face ugly. “It sounds more like defiance than entreaty. Do not defy me, Tarian.” Her tone was steely. “Stand aside.”

“I fear I cannot.”

Mab seemed to swell with rage, and on all sides courtiers edged away. “This is intolerable! More. It is treason. And all present knows the penalty for that. Stand aside, Tarian, or I will unmake you instead.”

Fighting the urge to hunch her shoulders, Tarian stood her ground.

“As you wish.” Mab pivoted until her finger was pointing at Tarian. Her face was white marble, her eyes chips of flint.

Tarian closed her eyes. I wonder if it will hurt? She was beginning to shiver and feel light-headed. At least it can’t feel any worse than this shoulder. She had no regrets. Except one. I hope Einion sees Cassie safe home before Mab takes out her anger on her.

“Please don’t kill her.” The voice came from in front of Tarian.

She opened her eyes. Cassie was standing between her and the Queen, bracketed by Drysi and Anwar, their hackles raised. The protective gesture touched Tarian, but to see such courage wasted in such a futile cause . . . Belatedly it dawned on her that the Queen looked startled rather than angry. She felt a twinge of hope—audaciousness and courage had always intrigued Mab.

The Queen lowered her arm and regarded Cassie with raised brows. “Give me one good reason why I should not unmake Tarian. And have a care, mortal. For one false word could also spell your doom.”

“YOUR MAJESTY.” CASSIE sketched a curtsey. “Why unmake Tarian when she can be of use elsewhere? It seems such a waste.”

“Her use to me is my only concern.” Mab glanced over Cassie’s head at Tarian, her expression becoming as sullen as a teenager’s. “I had expected more gratitude, more loyalty.”

Ah, there’s the crux of the matter, thought Cassie. Mab’s feelings are hurt. “But if your wish is never to see her again, your majesty, wouldn’t banishing her serve you as well?”

“I banished her once.” Mab gestured at Tarian. “Yet here she stands.”

“Ah, but you didn’t really let her go,” said Cassie. The Queen’s brows drew together. “You thought she would come to her senses, didn’t you? Realise what she had left behind and choose to return. But she didn’t.”

The Queen folded her arms. “Is this leading somewhere?”

Cassie’s heart beat faster. She didn’t deny it. “I have a question for you, your majesty. As Queen of the Fae you can do anything. Correct?”

A look of pride overtook Mab, and she threw back her head. “Of course.”

“Even make someone love you? With a love spell or something?”

Mab tapped her foot and said with obvious irritation, “Get to the point.”

“I beg your pardon.” Cassie flushed. “My point is this. You could have made Tarian love you, yet you chose not to. Why?” When Mab remained silent, she went on. “Wasn’t it because making her love you would have made such love meaningless?”

“Pah!” said Mab. “How sentimental you mortals are.” But there was an air of bluster about her. “We talk not of love. Tarian is my subject, and subjects obey their Queen in all things.”

Cassie looked down at her hands, then up again. “She is yours to command? To do with as you please?”

Mab gave an impatient nod. “Of course.”

“Then could you give her to someone else? Me, for example.”

Tarian’s intake of breath was drowned by the Queen’s exclamation. “You?”

Cassie worked hard not to feel nettled. “Why not? You have a surplus of champions, your majesty, but we mortals have none. It would be a generous gift, much appreciated.”

“Is she mad?” Mab spoke over Cassie’s head.

“No, your majesty,” came Tarian’s voice. “She’s brave and resourceful and worthy of your admiration.” The words brought a glow to Cassie’s insides.

Mab snorted. “Now I know the world has gone topsy-turvy and you along with it.” Her gaze returned to Cassie’s face. “You hardly know Tarian yet you are willing to defend her as a lion would her cubs. Once her true nature is revealed, though, your feelings towards her will change. Mortals have weak stomachs.”

“If by that you’re talking about her love of violence,” said Cassie, “then I’ve seen her at her worst. She killed four men with no more thought or emotion than if she were killing vermin. But it was for my sake, your majesty. She risked her life to save me. How could I hate her for that? She was my champion, your majesty. May she not continue to be so?”

The silence that followed seemed endless.

“Well, this is touching,” said Mab, sounding both resigned and bitter. “Perhaps I should unmake you both, for if one dies the other will surely pine.”

Her lip curled, and when she fixed her eyes on Tarian, traced a shape in the air, and spoke what sounded like gibberish, Cassie feared the worst. As a pale green light engulfed Tarian, Cassie was convinced she had failed. But as she watched, terrified, Tarian’s haggard expression eased. And when Tarian’s hand dropped from her shoulder, and Cassie saw that the flesh beneath the gashed and bloodstained tunic was whole once more, the sheer relief made her giddy.

“My thanks, your majesty.” Tarian bowed, then stepped forward to join Cassie. The dogs looked up at their mistress with adoring eyes, their tails wagging.

Then Mab gestured again. And this time the green light settled over Cadel. The healing spell took longer to work on him, perhaps because his injuries were so severe. As skull fragments and mangled flesh moved, knitting themselves back together, Cassie pressed a fist to her mouth and tried not to be sick. At last, he stirred, let out a groan, and sat up.

A ripple of applause greeted what had obviously been a powerful working. With a casual wave, Mab dismissed it, and turned back to Tarian.

“The time has come to put an end to this dance, Tarian.” Mab sounded tired, and Cassie wondered if it was because using her magic had drained her or due to something more. “Once, we brought each other joy, but these days there is only pain.” Mab expelled a breath. “But as I have been so recently reminded, I am the Queen and may do as I please. Very well. Though I could make you love me, I will not. Which leaves but one option.”

Her lips moved, and she gestured at herself. Cassie exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Tarian as the tiredness and anguish disappeared from Mab’s eyes and her face smoothed. Mab exhaled and stretched out her arms, the way one does after putting down a burden carried for too long.

“It is done.” She smiled, but when she returned her attention to Tarian her smile dimmed. “You fought well today, Tarian. Take your prize and go. And do not return. For I have expunged all affection for you as though it never was.”

At her words, Tarian’s jaw worked. Cassie grasped her hand. It felt icy to the touch.

“Cadel.” Mab beckoned. He threw a triumphant glance at Tarian before getting to his feet and hurrying to join his Queen. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Let it be known that Cadel is once more my champion,” she announced in ringing tones. “And let it also be known that, henceforth, Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk is no subject of mine. Faerie is barred to her forever, and if she should return a second time,” her eyes flashed, “I will unmake her.”

Tarian’s face was impassive, but her tension transmitted itself through their clasped hands. Cassie squeezed her fingers, and Tarian gave her a sideways glance before bowing her head to the Queen.

“As you will it, so shall it be,” she murmured.

Mab nodded. Then without another word or a backward glance, she turned her back and strolled away, arm in arm with her champion, her dog trotting at her heels.

TARIAN’S HORSE AIMED a petulant kick at Anwar. The wolfhound evaded the hoof and tried to nip a fetlock in reprisal.

“Hey!” said Cassie. “Pack it in, you two.”

Cassie was ill at ease in the saddle, so Tarian had declined the second horse Einion offered, mounted up behind Cassie, and was keeping her steady with a hand round her waist. The warm press of Cassie’s jean-clad hips against her thighs was a pleasant bonus.

She sucked in a lungful of air and tried to commit its fragrance to memory. This time she would not be coming back.

“Are you all right?” Cassie twisted to look at her. “You’ve been very quiet.”

“Just tired.” She guided the horse left onto the bridle track.

“I’m not surprised. All that fighting. And that was an awful wound you took.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“As bad as Cadel’s?”

“Mm.”

Cassie shuddered. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sight of his head knitting itself back together like that. It was decent of Mab to heal your wound as well.”

“And unexpected.”

Mab’s gesture, surprising as it was, had come as a welcome relief, for Tarian had been too exhausted and in too much pain to take on the task herself. Einion would have healed her if she had asked him to, but still . . . The tiredness she felt now was more mental than physical, she suspected. It was strange to think she no longer held a special place in Mab’s affections. She could not deny that, though it had been a nuisance at times, it had been flattering to have the Queen enamoured of her.

A glade full of wildflowers appeared up ahead, and at its centre shimmered the faint haze that was the boundary between the worlds.

“I remember this,” said Cassie, looking around.

Tarian reined in, dismounted, and helped Cassie down.

With a grunt of relief, Cassie rubbed the feeling back into her legs. “Why do they make horses so wide?” She crossed to a clump of wildflowers and stooped to pick them. “These are nice. Such a wonderful scent.”

Tarian tied the reins to the pommel, so they wouldn’t get tangled on a branch, slapped the horse’s rump, and sent it back the way it had come. The dogs chased the panicked animal, just for fun, until it was out of sight, before bounding back to Tarian’s side.

“Bad dogs,” she told them, but she didn’t mean it. They rubbed their cheeks against her, inviting her to pat them.

“Here.” She turned to find Cassie holding out a posy of blooms in pastel shades. “These are for you.”

No one had ever given Tarian flowers before and for a moment she was at a loss. “Thank you.” She tucked them in her belt.

“Will you miss it?” Cassie indicated their surroundings.

“There hasn’t been a day when I don’t. Come on.” Tarian held out her hand.

“Come where?” Cassie took it.

Tarian pointed to the shimmer.

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I think I can feel it, though. Like static electricity.”

Tarian stepped towards the boundary and gave Cassie’s hand a tug. “It’s a shame we had to return the horse. We’ll have to walk once we cross.” She took another step. “Ready?” Cassie took a breath and nodded. “Here we go.”

In the course of the next step their surroundings flickered and changed. Suddenly it was drizzling, and no longer midafternoon but early morning, judging by the light. The flower-strewn glade had become a rough clearing, the muted sounds of the waking forest replacing the loud trill of the blackbird, and the temperature had dropped. One second the dogs weren’t there, the next they were, sniffing around the clearing and cocking their legs against a tree.

Cassie looked at the massive oak tree and the ash. “Are we back in Bourn Forest?”

“Yes.” Tarian released her hand and pointed towards the trail she always used. “This way.” She pushed her way between the branches, then realised Cassie wasn’t following her. Puzzled, she went back. Cassie was standing by a narrow trail on the other side of the clearing, frowning.

“I’m sure I came this way,” she called. “Look. Hoofprints.”

“Maybe so,” said Tarian. “But my way is shorter and will bring us out in my back garden.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Tarian smiled and set off along the trail once more, Cassie at her side, the dogs bringing up the rear. The foliage was dripping and it wasn’t long before they were wet too.

“It would be raining.” Cassie brushed a strand of damp hair out of her eyes. “And cold.”

Tarian grunted. She was missing the sweatshirt she had left in Faerie. This tunic was too thin for an English Spring.

“Listen to me, complaining about the weather,” exclaimed Cassie, after a few more paces. “I should be thankful just to be here at all.” She looked at Tarian. “Thank you for coming after me. You always seem to be rescuing me.”

“It was my fault Mab targeted you in the first place.” Tarian held back a branch to allow Cassie past. “And it was you who persuaded the Queen to spare my life. You have quite a way with words.”

“My friends are always telling me I talk too much.” Cassie’s sigh made Tarian chuckle.

They walked on a little way, the only sound the crack of twigs beneath their feet or the squelch of mud. Then Tarian recognised an old silver birch leaning at an unusual angle. “Nearly there.”

“Good.” Cassie wiped raindrops from her eyelashes. “I could do with a sit down and a cup of tea.”

“Or something stronger,” said Tarian, as she emerged into the open and saw her back garden stretching out in front of her. The dogs bounded ahead, stopped outside the kitchen door, and looked back at her, tongues lolling. She paused as unexpected emotion flooded through her.

I’m back.

“What is it?” asked Cassie softly.

“I didn’t realise how much I loved this place until I thought I might never set eyes on it again.” She studied the neglected garden, the window frames in need of another coat of paint, the dirty windowpanes. “I know it’s nothing compared to Mab’s palace but it’s . . .” She shrugged.

“Home,” completed Cassie.

Tarian returned the smile.

She had left the back door unlocked, so she lifted the latch and walked in. While the dogs made straight for their water bowls, drank their fill, and flopped down in their baskets, she turned to survey her kitchen, drinking in the signs of a life put on hold when the Fae hunting party arrived.

She remembered the posy of flowers in her belt, filled a glass with water from the tap, and placed them in it. Their fragrance filled the kitchen. A memento of Faerie. They won’t last long.

A shiver reminded her that she was soaked to the skin. “Put the kettle on,” she told Cassie. “I’m going to change into something warmer.”

Upstairs, she discarded the blood-soaked tunic and breeches and pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans. Then she visited the bathroom and made herself presentable.

Cassie looked up as she re-entered the kitchen. A tea towel was draped round her neck, and her hair was fetchingly tousled from its use. Tea was brewing in the pot, and she had set out two mugs. She reached for the milk bottle that she must have taken from Tarian’s fridge. “Milk and sugar? Or something stronger?”

“Just milk.” Tarian flopped down on a chair. Cassie set her mug on the table next to her. “Thanks.” Several sips of tea later, she noticed that Cassie had been frowning at the kitchen clock for a while. “Is it slow?”

Cassie glanced at her wristwatch before answering. “No. But I was just wondering. How long do you think we’ve been gone? Fairy tales say a day in Faerie is a year here.”

“Another of those things that folklore hasn’t got quite right. Time passes at the same rate, but our days are out of synch—how much depends on which crossing you use.”

“There are other entrances than the one in Bourn Forest?”

Tarian nodded. “Most have fallen into disuse though.”

“I see.” Cassie looked at the clock again. It was only seven-thirty in the morning. “So we’ve been away, what, a day at most?”

“Not even that. I’d guess it’s Monday morning.”

Cassie mouthed the word, “Monday.” She blinked as something occurred to her. “Liz Hayward’s going to wonder where I spent last night. She’ll think you and I . . .” She blushed.

“So what if she does?” Her reaction amused Tarian. “You’re a grown woman.”

“You don’t mind people thinking that?” Cassie’s gaze was intent.

“Why should I?”

“I just thought . . .” She gave a shrug and subsided, muttering, “I don’t know what I thought.”

Tarian cocked her head. “No?” Cassie’s behaviour since they’d returned from Faerie was confusing her. Now she knew who Tarian was—what she was—why hadn’t Cassie fled at the first opportunity? Tarian had been trying her best not to invade Cassie’s privacy, but now she extended her senses. There was no trace of the fear, the revulsion, in Cassie that she had every right to expect. Just a mix of gratitude and attraction. Tarian glanced at the flowers sitting in the glass of water.

“You didn’t put a spell on me, did you?” asked Cassie. She had followed Tarian’s glance.

“What kind of spell? Oh.” She smiled. “If you’re attracted to me it’s not because of any spell.”

Cassie’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know I’m attracted to you?”

Tarian wasn’t about to give away any more secrets just yet. “Do you give flowers to people you don’t like?” She cocked her head. “If it helps, I’m attracted to you too.”

Cassie gave her a relieved smile. “It helps.”

“We didn’t get off to a very good start on Saturday night, did we?”

“No.”

“If dinner had gone to plan, I was hoping to do this.” Tarian stood up, took hold of Cassie’s hands, and drew her to her feet.

“What?” asked Cassie. But from her shy expression she knew very well. And when Tarian bent her head and kissed her, tentatively at first, then more surely, tasting the flavour of tea on her mouth, she found her kiss returned.

After a while, they simply stood, holding one another. Cassie’s heart, which had been pounding, had slowed to a more reasonable pace, and she was radiating contentment. The dogs lifted their heads and regarded Tarian smugly.

Tarian smiled. They knew this would happen before I did.

“You know who I am, yet you’re not afraid of me,” she mused aloud, enjoying the feel of Cassie’s curves pressed against her, the warm arms wrapped round her. This is what I’ve missed.

“Why should I be?” Cassie’s voice was muffled by Tarian’s shoulder. “You’re my protector. My champion.”

She liked the sound of that.

Are you out of your mind? asked an inner voice. Relationships between Fae and mortals always come to grief. She silenced the voice. Not always. And would you sentence me to eternal loneliness or let me try to find happiness where I can? The voice had no answer to that.

At last, Tarian disentangled herself, to noises of protest from Cassie. She looked down at her, smiled, and stroked her cheek. “I’d like to get to know you better, Cassie. A lot better. But for now, you should go home. You’ve been through a lot. You need to rest, and to think. It’s not every day your world-view gets turned upside down.”

Cassie sighed. “I suppose.”

“If I don’t hear from you again,” she began, flattered when Cassie started to object. “No, hear me out. If you decide it’s better we don’t see each other again, for whatever reason, I’ll understand. But if you want to take things further, well, I’ll be here. All you have to do is knock.”

Chapter 11

Cassie parked outside Tarian’s cottage and turned off the ignition. It was wonderful to have her car back, though the repairs had put a sizeable dent in her credit card. She got out, opened the boot, and pulled out her travel bag.

“Morning, Miss Lewis,” came a man’s voice. “So it’s today you move in with Ms. Brangwen, is it?”

She turned and saw Simon Wright walking past. “Yes, Reverend. It’s today.”

He nodded, waved, and walked on. From his expression, she knew he didn’t really approve of her burgeoning relationship with Tarian. He was fearful on her behalf, which was sweet of him but unnecessary. How could he understand his instincts had misled him?

Liz Hayward’s jaw had also dropped when Cassie announced she would be terminating her stay at the B & B and moving in to the forester’s house. But by then the landlady had seen the two of them walking hand in hand about the village, wolfhounds at their heels, so it hadn’t come as a complete bolt from the blue.

Cassie closed the boot and lugged the heavy travel bag towards the front door. She hadn’t told her parents yet that she was seeing someone and that it was serious, but that was a conversation for another day. As was the one she would have to have with her boss at the library. She would have to decide what to do about her future, and soon.

She looked at her luggage then at Tarian’s front door and gave a wry smile. Looks like I’ve already decided.

The door opened, and Tarian and the dogs emerged. “What are you waiting for?”

“A porter to carry my luggage?”

Tarian grinned and took the bag from her, handling it as though it weighed almost nothing. Cassie shook her head at that unconscious show of strength and followed her inside and up the stairs.

“I’ve made up the spare bedroom,” said Tarian, showing her into a little room overlooking the back garden she had never been in before. “It’s not up to Liz Hayward’s standards, I’m afraid.” She gestured at the mismatched, shabby furniture. “No TV. No electric kettle.”

Cassie crossed the room and hugged her. “It’s got you,” she said and turned her face up for a kiss. Tarian grinned and obliged. “Besides,” Cassie said, when Tarian let her up for breath again, “I don’t imagine I’ll be sleeping in here, will I?”

Tarian drew back and arched an eyebrow at her. She had made it clear the invitation to move in came with no strings. “Is that what you want?”

Amazed at her own boldness, Cassie nodded.

Tarian chuckled and gave her another kiss. “All right.”

When she’d unpacked, they snuggled on the sofa in front of Tarian’s log fire, and Cassie broached a subject she knew was important to them both.

“DS Edlin rang me this morning.”

“Oh?” Tarian’s voice was neutral, but tension had crept into the arm draped around Cassie’s shoulder.

“It was good news and bad news. The good news is: Armitage’s organisation is in chaos. Four of the men who worked for him have disappeared.”

Tarian grunted. “Imagine that.”

“The bad news is: he hasn’t been able to pin the white van attack on anyone. So it’s a no to the witness protection scheme.”

Tarian’s arm tightened around her. “I’ll protect you.”

“I know you will,” murmured Cassie. “But only if I stay here.”

“What do you mean, ‘if’?” Tarian removed her arm, and Cassie felt its loss at once. “Have you changed your mind?” Anwar and Drysi lifted their heads and gave Cassie reproachful looks.

“I didn’t mean that how it sounds,” said Cassie. She took a breath and tried again. “Look, I have to go back sometime, Tarian. To clear up the mess I left behind. I’ve got to find a place for Murphy—he won’t get on with the dogs if I bring him here—and I want to see Mum and Dad and my friends, let them see I’m fine, and they don’t need to worry about me. I also have to clear out my flat and give notice to the landlord. Paying rent for a place I don’t live in anymore is a waste.”

Tarian draped her arm round Cassie’s shoulders again. With a smile, Cassie leaned into it. “You could come with me, to keep me safe.”

“All right.”

“What?” She glanced at Tarian, and as she seemed to do a lot lately, got lost in gazing at that breathtaking profile.

“I said, all right, I’ll come with you,” said Tarian.

Cassie came back to herself with a start. “Will you?” She sat up. “That’s great. Wow! I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone. They’ll be gobsmacked.” Tarian gave her a sceptical look. “Oh come on. Have you taken a look in the mirror? They’ll be so jealous. Not everyone has their very own Fae lover and protector.”

“Probably best not to mention the Fae bit.”

Cassie gave her a sheepish grin. “They’d never believe it anyway.” She pinched her forearm and winced. “I still can’t quite believe it myself.”

“Hardly surprising.” Tarian rubbed Cassie’s forearm better. “Some mortals never do. They’d rather deny the evidence of their own eyes; it’s too unsettling otherwise. Or they fit us into their existing world-view, make us into demons or devils.” She paused. “Are you still getting nightmares?”

“A few.” The spiked ball tearing into Tarian’s shoulder, the bloody pulp that had been Cadel’s skull knitting itself back together . . . Those and other gory images were frequent visitors to her dreams. “I think being here with you will help though.”

Tarian nodded and pulled her closer, and Cassie found herself wanting to be naked and in her arms. She was about to suggest they go upstairs when Tarian roused herself from staring at the flames.

“Listen, Cassie, I’ll come back with you to Birmingham to keep you safe, of course I will. But that’s only a short-term solution. Armitage will always be a threat to you. Let me take care of him.”

“Can you do that?” asked Cassie in surprise. “Even while he’s locked up in Winson Green?” Her magic must be more powerful than I thought.

Tarian nodded. “But if I do,” she turned to look at Cassie, “there’ll be nothing to keep you here.”

Her expression gave nothing away, but day by day Cassie was getting better at reading her, and she heard the uncertainty. Her Fae lover was surprisingly unsure of herself at times. “Yes there will.” She lifted her hand to stroke Tarian’s cheekbone. “I may not need your protection anymore, but I’ll need you.”

“Hm.” Tarian gave her a pleased smile, tilted Cassie’s face towards her, and kissed her.

Cassie’s head was still spinning from the kiss when another thought struck her. “You won’t kill him, will you?”

“Armitage? Don’t you want me to?” Tarian sounded surprised.

“No. There’s been enough death. But you could punish him, a little.” For the pain and anguish he’s caused.

Tarian pulled Cassie closer. “All right,” she said. “I won’t kill him.”

“PARCEL FOR YOU, Mr Armitage.”

The guard standing in the doorway of Armitage’s cell was holding a flat, rectangular package under his left arm. It was about two feet by three feet, and had been wrapped in brown paper and string, before the prison authorities tore it open at one end.

Armitage put down his Playboy magazine, stubbed out his cigar, and sat up. “Anything interesting?”

The guard crossed to his bed and handed him the parcel. “Depends on what you mean by interesting. I didn’t know you were an art lover, Mr Armitage.”

“I’m not.” He turned the parcel over to see who it was from. Tarian Brangwen. What kind of a name is that? There was no address, and he couldn’t make out the postmark. He tore off what remained of the brown paper and frowned at what it revealed.

A painting. Not a very good one either. A forest clearing with a hunting party in it. What were they hunting? Stag? He was no art critic but he knew what he liked, and this wasn’t it. Nothing about the scene was right. The light and colours were all wrong, the trees spindly, the dogs too large, and the riders’ faces and bodies distorted, too tall and thin. The only things that looked realistic were the horses.

“Who sent me this piece of crap?”

As he peered at it, a sensation of dizziness swept over him, and he stretched out a hand to steady himself. The wall felt rough under his palm as he tried to catch his breath.

“Mr. Armitage? Mr. Armitage, are you all right?”

The room was growing blurry, as though a mist were billowing in the door. It swirled around his ankles, rose to knee level.

“Mist—er—Arm—it—age?” The guard’s voice sounded like a tape playing at too slow a speed. “Shit!—Get—the—doc,” he yelled to someone in the corridor outside. “I—think—Arm—it—age—is—hav—ing—a—stroke.”

Then the mist enveloped him, and there was a roaring in his ears and a sensation of falling . . .

He was standing in a clearing just like the one in the painting. Something buzzed in his ear, and he flinched and flailed at it. The insect darted out of reach before returning to the attack. Pain stabbed the back of his neck. Damned thing! He slapped his neck and examined the bloody smear in his palm. Got you, you bastard!

It was warm here, humid. Already there were damp patches under his arms, and he could feel sweat beginning to trickle down his back. The smell of leaf mould and of things growing was overpowering. I’m outdoors. He sneezed. I hate outdoors.

What sounded like a hunting horn blew in the distance, then came the faint baying of hounds. He cocked his head and listened. The horn blew again. It sounded closer this time, and so did the baying.

Suddenly Armitage knew, with cast iron certainty, that the hunters were coming for him. A feeling of terror, visceral in its intensity, swept over him. Like a hare that knows the fox has spotted it, he stood poised, eyes wide, his whole body shivering. Then with a loud sob, he began to run.

PART 2

THE DOLL HOSPITAL

Chapter 1

Tarian held the haunch of wild boar out of reach of her two wolfhounds. “That’s for later.” Anwar and Drysi whined and gave her their best mournful looks but her heart was as stone. “You’ve had your breakfast,” she reminded them.

Tails drooping, they lay down on the gravel, resting their heads on their front paws and doing their best to look put upon.

She rolled her eyes and squeezed the joint of meat into the tiny car boot alongside the rest of the dogs’ supplies and the two overnight bags. The bags bulged. Tarian wasn’t taking much, but Cassie . . . You’d never guess they planned to be away a week at most.

Footsteps made her look around as Cassie emerged from the front door of the forester’s house. Gaily-wrapped parcels piled in her arms almost hid her from view. Tarian went to help her before she dropped something.

“What is all this?”

“Presents. Thanks.” Cassie relinquished two parcels to Tarian’s care.

“Did you buy the entire gift shop?”

“Well, I couldn’t go empty-handed. I had to get something for Rosemary for looking after Murphy. And for Mum and Dad too, to thank them for inviting us to dinner tomorrow. And I couldn’t leave out Louise—that Armitage business made me miss her birthday—or Danny and Justin or—”

“Forget I asked.”

Cassie threw her a grin, and together they stowed the parcels in what little space remained. “There.” She closed the boot and stood back.

“Going somewhere nice?” came a man’s voice. Mike the mechanic was smiling at them from the pavement. Fresh oil streaks almost hid his acne.

“Depends how you view Birmingham,” said Tarian.

He gestured at Cassie’s car. “Last time she was there, I had to hammer the dents out of the boot and fit her a new bumper. Not that I’d mind more work. Business is pretty slack.”

“Those were exceptional circumstances,” said Cassie, sounding slightly peeved. “Birmingham’s really nice in parts, Mike. Anyway, we’re only going for a little while. To sort out my flat.”

“And meet her parents,” added Tarian.

He threw Tarian a sympathetic glance. “Good luck with that.” He lifted his hand in farewell and set off back down the hill. She watched him go, becoming aware of Cassie’s quizzical gaze.

“You aren’t worried about meeting them, are you?”

Tarian shrugged. Nothing should be able to daunt a former champion of the Queen of the Fae, yet she had to admit she was feeling a little apprehensive. “What if they dislike me?”

“Too bad. It’ll make no difference to how I feel about you,” said Cassie.

That remark deserved a kiss, so Tarian gave it to her. “I could always put a spell on them.”

Cassie’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare.”

“Just joking,” said Tarian, though she hadn’t been. Oh well. She released Cassie. I’ll just have to charm them the hard way. “Ready to go?”

Cassie nodded and opened the car’s back door. “In,” she told the dogs.

They got to their feet, yawned, stretched their backs and back legs, and padded over, taking their time about it. Tarian sent them a mental command to hurry up. Cassie had placed a car rug over the back seat to keep off the worst of the muddy paw prints and dog hairs, and the dogs sprawled on it quite happily.

“I’ll close up the house and be right with you,” said Tarian.

It took her only a few minutes to use the bathroom and check that the back door was bolted and the curtains in her studio were drawn, the lights off, and the embers in the Aga and the sitting room hearth out. She pulled on her well-worn leather jacket, tugged the front door closed behind her, activated the wards she had prepared earlier, and walked towards the car.

“Should we have asked someone to keep an eye on the house?” asked Cassie, as Tarian got in and shoved back the passenger seat as far as it would go.

“No need. Anyone who tries to break in will be overwhelmed by a sudden compulsion to go home. Why don’t these things come with more leg room?”

“It fits me,” said Cassie. “If you want a car that fits you, you should buy one.”

“And have it sit idle outside the house all day?”

“It goes without saying that you’d have to learn to drive.”

Tarian did up her seat belt. “Give me a warhorse any day.”

“You could get a motorbike and be a biker chick.” Green eyes looked off into space. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

Her lustful expression amused Tarian. “I don’t think so.”

Cassie came back to herself. “It was just a thought. Ready?”

Tarian nodded, and Cassie started the engine and released the handbrake.

They had gone ten yards down the hill when she glanced at Tarian. “It’s really nice of you to come with me. Especially as I don’t need your protection from Armitage anymore.”

The police had told Cassie that he was no longer a threat. To her or anyone else. He was in a coma in Winson Green’s medical wing, and it looked like he would never wake up. Tarian felt a sense of grim satisfaction. The bespelled painting I sent him must have done the trick.

“It’s no fun moving house on your own,” she said.

“True. But I know you don’t like towns and cities much.” Cassie slowed to let the Reverend Wright cross the road before picking up speed once more. “You’re just a little old country girl at heart.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow. “It’s more than that. The Fae live in harmony with Nature. We draw energy from oak and ash, river and sky.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Cassie threw her a concerned look. “Are you going to be all right?”

“It won’t kill me, and it’s only for a week.”

They drove past the little B & B where Tarian, and Cassie in her turn, had stayed when they first came to Bourn’s Edge.

“There are plenty of parks in Birmingham,” said Cassie. “Maybe you could visit one, recharge your batteries.”

“It would need to be natural, ancient. Like Bourn Forest not some ornamental garden built by the Council in the 1960s.” Tarian twisted round to check on the dogs. They had thrust their heads out the half-open window and were enjoying the breeze. She faced front again and saw that Cassie’s expression had become triumphant.

“Would a park that’s been around since the ninth century do?”

“Perfect.”

“Ha!” Cassie drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Sutton Park dates from then, and my parents live right next door. We’ll go there before we visit them tomorrow.”

CASSIE UNLOCKED THE door to her flat and opened it. Or rather tried to. A pile of free newspapers, circulars, letters, and bills had built up behind it while she was away. She leaned her hip against it and forced her way inside.

The curtains were still drawn, and it smelled stuffy. Even though her neighbour had taken Murphy next door in preference to having to pop round constantly to feed him, there was a musky whiff of tomcat about the place.

She opened a window, but the roar of traffic and stink of fumes made her close it again. She had grown used to the peace, tranquillity, and forest-scented air of Bourn’s Edge.

Hands on hips, she surveyed her surroundings. The place felt smaller than she remembered. And though it had been her base of operations for three years it no longer felt like home. Which was just as well, as it wouldn’t be hers for much longer.

It was strange being back here again and in such altered circumstances. Last time, she’d been on the edge of panic, making arrangements for Murphy, contacting friends and family to say she’d be out of town for a few days, gathering together the things she might need and shoving them into a travel bag before running for her life. It astounded her how much her life had changed in a mere six weeks.

She straightened a sofa cushion and wondered what Tarian would make of the flat. Tarian had carried the luggage up from the car, then disappeared with the dogs for a much needed leg stretch. She was walking around the block, so she’d be back soon. In the meantime . . .

Cassie lugged the cases inside and closed the door. She stacked the presents on a table, dumped the overnight bags in the cramped bedroom, and viewed the double bed that had once felt too large and lonely with new eyes. Who would have believed it? I have a gorgeous girlfriend and a sex life. Then she grabbed the present with Rosemary’s name on it and went next door.

“You’re back!” Her neighbour blinked at her in pleased surprise. “Oh you didn’t need to.” But she accepted the large box of her favourite milk chocolates readily enough and stepped back. “Come in.”

“Of course I needed to, Rosemary,” said Cassie. “You saved my bacon, looking after Murphy at such short notice. I hope he hasn’t been too much trouble?”

To her relief, Rosemary shook her head. “Though it took him a few days to settle in.”

As they talked, Cassie was scanning the flat for signs of the tomcat. Movement attracted her attention—a ginger head ducking back under the sofa. Murphy wasn’t as glad to see his owner as Rosemary was. She couldn’t blame him. After deserting him, she couldn’t expect to be in his good books.

“I spy a familiar face.” She crossed to the sofa and knelt in front of it, hand extended. “Here, Murphy,” she crooned. “Mummy’s here to collect you.” A faint miaow greeted her but he stayed put.

After five minutes of increasing frustration, Rosemary knelt next to her. “Perhaps if I . . .”

“Please do,” said Cassie crossly.

She watched as without effort Rosemary coaxed Murphy out of hiding and scooped him up in her arms. “There’s a good boy. Ooh. Yes you are. Oochie coochie coo.” Affection softened her usually severe features. Rosemary worked for the Civil Service. In what capacity, Cassie had never been sure but she suspected it involved cowing members of the public. Certainly Rosemary’s manner could be off-putting, and it had taken some time before the two neighbours had become friends.

“There, there,” continued Rosemary. “You’ve had a nice little holiday, haven’t you, Murphy? We enjoyed ourselves.” Cassie tried not to roll her eyes at the gushing tone. “But now, it’s time to go back to your mistress. Oh yes it is.” Rosemary turned to Cassie and held out the tomcat. At once, Murphy began to squirm and wail.

Cassie grimaced. “Why all this fuss?” He gave her reaching hands a baleful stare. “Oh, don’t be like that. You know very well who I am.” His tail lashed. “Don’t be such a—Ow!”

“Are you all right?” asked Rosemary, shocked.

Cassie sucked her scratched hand and scowled. “At least he didn’t bite me. Stupid cat. Let’s try that again, shall we?”

Rather gingerly, Rosemary held him out once more. But this time the transfer went without a hitch, and having got the mindless act of violence out of his system, Murphy even began to purr in Cassie’s arms.

She rubbed him under his chin, the way he liked it. “How much do I owe you?”

Rosemary produced a dauntingly long list. “He wouldn’t eat the cheaper brands of cat food, I’m afraid. And I had to take him to the vet for an infected scratch.”

Cassie looked at the grand total and winced. “Will you take a cheque?”

Rosemary nodded.

“Great. I’ll pop it round later, if that’s all right.”

“Fine.”

She carried Murphy towards the front door, then paused. “By the way, I should warn you, I’ve given notice on the flat. I’ll be leaving by the end of the week.”

Her neighbour’s face fell. “Oh! I’m sorry to hear that, Cassie. I’ll miss you. You never know what new tenants are going to be like, whether they’re going to make your life a misery.”

“I know. Sorry.”

Rosemary shrugged. “Where are you off to?”

“Have you heard of Bourn’s Edge? Near Ludlow?”

Rosemary shook her head.

“I’m moving in with a friend. Her name’s Tarian. You might see her around during the next couple of days. She’s helping me pack.” Cassie paused as a thought struck her. “She’s got her two dogs with her. They’re wolfhounds, but they look far fiercer than they are. If you could grin and bear any disturbance for now, I’d be very grateful. They’ll be gone by the end of the week. Promise.”

Rosemary looked apprehensive but said gamely, “Thanks for the warning.”

Murphy was threatening to break free, so Cassie took a firmer grip. “I’d better go. He’s getting restless. Thanks again for looking after him, Rosemary. I’ll pop that cheque through your letterbox.”

Chapter 2

Tarian took the stairs two at a time, Drysi and Anwar keeping pace. As she strode along the landing towards Cassie’s flat, she noticed that the bags had disappeared from outside the front door. The door handle turned under her hand, and she pushed it open and walked through, almost stumbling as the dogs streaked past her.

Something small and ginger let out a terrified wail, zipped off the sofa, and vanished through a doorway on the other side of the room. The dogs followed, hard on its heels.

“What the—?” Cassie got up from the sofa and dashed after them.

“Stop it, you two,” Tarian heard her shouting above the frenzied barking. From its slightly echoey quality, it was coming from a bathroom. “Leave Murphy alone.”

“Drysi, Anwar, heel!” she yelled. Seconds later, the dogs were standing beside her, ears flat, tails down. Drysi rubbed her cheek against Tarian’s thigh, her eyes mournful. Anwar did the same on the other side.

“Bad dogs,” said Tarian. “What were you chasing?” The image of a ginger cat, its bristling fur making it look twice its natural size, popped into her head.

Cassie re-emerged, the same cat cradled in her arms. “How could they? I’d just got him settled in.”

“Sorry.” Tarian took off her jacket and hung it from the row of hooks that had Cassie’s suede jacket hanging on it. “It’s instinct. They won’t do it again.”

She gave the dogs a stern look, and they dipped their heads in submission. As she joined Cassie, Murphy hissed at her from the shelter of Cassie’s arms. “I don’t think he likes Fae. Or maybe it’s just me.”

“Can you blame him? He’s just been scared half to death.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow at the heated tone. “I said I’m sorry.”

Cassie bit her lip and sank onto the sofa. “Me too. I shouldn’t take it out on you.” She sounded subdued. “I’m just feeling guilty. It doesn’t seem fair to send him to the animal shelter. It’s not his fault.”

Tarian sat next to her and draped a companionable arm round her shoulders. It brought her closer to Murphy, who glared at her and stretched out a paw, claws extended.

“Ah ah.” She raised a finger in warning.

After a pause, he retracted the paw and began to wash himself. But constant peeks in her direction undermined his air of nonchalance.

An amused gurgle escaped Cassie. “Well I never! He knows he’s met his match.” She placed the tomcat on the floor.

The washing continued, with alternating glances at Tarian and the dogs, now settled under the table, eyes closed, affecting indifference. A status quo of sorts had been reached.

Tarian relaxed and gave the slender shoulder under her arm a squeeze. “Maybe your neighbour could take him off your hands.”

“Rosemary? Six weeks of looking after him is probably enough.” Cassie’s brow creased. “Oh Lord! I bet she’s wondering what all the barking was. Good job I warned her. I could always try Louise, I suppose.”

“The friend whose birthday you missed?”

“Mm. Louise likes cats but she hasn’t got around to buying one yet. And she has a house and a garden, so he could go outside. I’ve always felt guilty about keeping Murphy indoors, but the traffic around here is so bad. Can’t remember how her husband feels about cats though.” Cassie drummed her fingers on the arm of the sofa and eyed the phone on the coffee table. After a moment, her forehead smoothed. “I’ll ring her. Murphy could be a belated birthday gift.”

Cassie dialled a number from memory. “Hello, Lou? Yes, I just got back. I missed you too. Sorry about your birthday. Listen.” Her voice became a wheedle. “I’ve got a big favour to ask. No I don’t want to borrow that dress. Or your handbag. If I can just get a word in edgeways. Look, you like Murphy, don’t you? I thought so. Well, I have this teensy weensy problem. My girlfriend has these dogs, you see, and—What? Of course I mean Tarian. Who else would I—?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I’ve got girlfriends coming out of my ears, Lou. Yes she’s here and giving me very strange looks. Of course you can meet her, just don’t show her any incriminating photos. Um, what was I talking about? Oh yes: Murphy. I was wondering—Does he eat what?”

She gave Tarian a bewildered glance. “What do bluebottles have to do with it? Yuck! No, he doesn’t eat flies. Does that mean you won’t take him? Of course he’s been ‘done.’” She crossed her fingers before adding, “He’ll eat pretty much anything. You will? You’re sure Sam won’t mind?” Her face became wreathed with smiles and she gave Tarian a thumbs up. “Brilliant. Um, how about ten tomorrow morning? You can meet Tarian then too. Great. See you. Bye.” She put down the receiver with a satisfied grin. “Sorted.”

“What was all that about bluebottles?” asked Tarian.

“That was odd. Louise says their house is suffering from a fly infestation. No sooner does Pest Control succeed in wiping out one lot than another lot arrives. They don’t know where they’re coming from or how to put a stop to it. It’s driving her and Sam nuts.”

“And we’re going there tomorrow?” Tarian grimaced.

Cassie gave her arm a playful slap. “We should be safe for a few hours. By the way, Louise says she can’t wait to meet you.”

“I can imagine.”

A SONG THRUSH added its loud, clear notes to the rustle of oak leaves and the crunching of acorns, and for the first time that day, the pigboy’s shoulders relaxed. He’d spend all his time in the wood, if he had his way. The pigs didn’t pick on him because he was different or give him the most disgusting tasks to do.

He made himself comfortable on his tree stump, rested the willow switch on his knees, and found a suitable twig to chew.

At first, the pigs jostled and trod on each other as they rooted for acorns, but contented snuffles and snorts soon replaced the squeals and indignant grunts. Disputes among the herd never lasted long. They were family, something he had never known himself.

His thoughts turned inwards, and he dreamed of a world where his carrot-coloured hair and lack of height didn’t count against him. Where he was comely and graceful, and could work magic like everyone else. Where he had a name, friends, and family, slept in the great hall and ate the same food as the other servants.

When the pigboy came back to himself, the sun had moved in the sky, and the pigs, having gorged themselves, had lain down for a nap. He gauged how much time had passed, then straightened his tunic and scrambled to his feet. It was later than he had intended. They would be wondering where he had got to.

It didn’t pay to make them come looking for him. His shoulders tensed. Once, they had turned him into a pig for seven days. And there was that fortnight spent without a mouth.

“Here, pigs,” he called, a little desperately. “Here.”

Sleepy eyes turned towards him then away once more. He raised his willow switch and said more forcefully, “I said, here, pigs.”

With a grunt of annoyance, the herd matriarch heaved herself to her feet and trotted to his side. The others would follow her. “Good girl, Blacktail.” He patted her on the rump. “Time to go home.”

Chapter 3

Cassie engaged the handbrake and switched off the ignition. “Here we are.” She undid her seat belt and stretched.

Beside her, Tarian peered through the windscreen at the house—a large semi-detached with a spacious front garden. “Nice. How long has your friend lived here?”

“Just over a year. They bought it after they got married. Before that Louise had a flat.”

“And her husband’s name is—?”

“Sam.” Cassie reached for the door handle. “But he’s away on business, thank God. Having a husband around changes the dynamic. You know?”

Tarian nodded and undid her seat belt. “Louise is your friend, not Sam.”

“Exactly.” Cassie went round to the boot and opened it. An indignant miaow greeted her, accompanied by the sound of claws shredding cardboard. “There, there, Murphy. It’s nearly over.” She reached for the cat carrier, pausing at the sound of the house’s front door opening.

“I thought it was you,” came Louise’s shout. “Need any help?”

“Yes,” called back Cassie. “Come and collect your cat.”

A grinning Louise trotted down the drive towards her. She was wearing a pinafore apron and pink rubber gloves. “I was just making the place presentable,” she said as she drew nearer.

“Are those new specs?” asked Cassie. Her old friend had never got the hang of contact lenses but at least she no longer wore the heavy frames that had marred her looks at school. “They suit you.”

“Thanks.” Louise nodded a shy hello to Tarian and accepted a peck on the cheek and a warm hug from Cassie, who pointed to the cat carrier.

“He’s in there. And he’s not happy.”

Murphy let out a series of mournful cries.

“Sounds like the understatement of the year.” Louise picked up the carrier by its handle, turned, and stopped dead. Tarian had let the wolfhounds out and they were eyeing Louise with interest. “Er.”

Tarian clicked her fingers, and Anwar and Drysi went to her side at once.

“They’re very obedient.” Louise sounded both relieved and impressed.

“And not as scary as they look,” said Cassie. “Tarian’s got them well trained, Lou. They’ll be okay in your back garden for a bit, won’t they?” Louise gave her a doubtful look, and Cassie turned to Tarian. “Tell them not to dig up the roses or leap over the fence.”

Her order made Tarian roll her eyes. Louise grinned at the exchange.

“Where—?” said Tarian.

“It’s that way.” Louise pointed to the side gate. Moments later Tarian lifted the gate’s latch and disappeared with the dogs along the side passage.

Louise took the opportunity to raise her eyebrows at Cassie and murmur, “She’s gorgeous. And those eyes.”

Cassie gave her friend a goofy grin. “I know. I still have to pinch myself some days.”

“Where did you say you met her?”

“It’s a long story.” A loud hiss interrupted Cassie, and the sound of scrabbling claws intensified. “We’d better get him indoors.”

She reached for the laundry basket she had filled with tins of cat food, a half-used sack of dry food, his bowls, cat-scratching post, litter tray, and favourite toys. A catnip-stuffed mouse made a bid for escape, and Cassie grabbed it and put it back.

Louise gaped at her. “Sure you can manage all that?”

“If we’re quick about it.” Cassie steadied the basket on one knee while she slammed the boot closed. She followed Louise through the front door, into the hall, then into the kitchen.

Cassie gave her surroundings an approving look. On a granite countertop lay two tea trays. One contained a coffee cake, a knife, and three plates, the other a jug of milk, a cafetière, and three cups and saucers. In the cafetière was ground coffee, awaiting the addition of boiling water. Must be for us. “You’ve had this room redecorated. Nice.”

“Thanks.”

While Cassie dumped Murphy’s possessions in front of the washing machine, Louise set the cat carrier in the middle of the vinyl-tiled floor, knelt beside it, and opened the top.

“Miaow.” Murphy glared up at her, tail lashing.

“Don’t you want to get out of that nasty old box?”

“Careful, Lou,” said Cassie, as an unsheathed paw lashed out at her friend.

“It’s all right. I came prepared.” Louise took off her gloves, dipped a hand in her apron pocket, and came out with something held between finger and thumb. It was dark reddish brown, and looked meaty. “Here, Murphy. Look what I’ve got for you.”

The tail stopped mid wave and a ginger nose thrust itself forward. Next moment, Louise’s fingers were empty and Murphy’s jaws were moving. He swallowed, considered, and let out the high-pitched miaow used only when he was being affectionate.

“What was that?” asked Cassie, amazed.

“Chicken liver.”

Murphy batted Louise’s empty hand with his paw, claws sheathed this time. “Want some more?” A rough pink tongue appeared and rasped her fingers. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She pulled out a second piece of liver, which went the way of the first.

After that, the tomcat allowed Louise to lift him out of the container with no trouble at all. With a free hand she took off her apron, then she carried him into the sitting room and sat in one of the two armchairs with him in her lap. He even let her stroke him.

“Bribery and corruption,” said Cassie, torn between admiration and feeling peeved. Fickle cat! She flopped down in the middle of the three-seater sofa. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Louise buffed her fingernails on her apron. “Some of us have it, kiddo, and some of us . . .”

A shadow darkened the doorway, and they looked round. Tarian was standing there, forehead creased as though in discomfort or puzzlement.

“Dogs settled okay?” asked Cassie.

Tarian nodded and came into the sitting room. “May I?” At Louise’s nod, she sank onto the sofa beside Cassie and stretched out long, jean-clad legs. “Your garden’s much larger than I expected.”

Louise beamed. “That’s one of the reasons we bought this place. When these houses were built, developers were much more generous with land.”

She held out a hand, careful not to disturb the cat purring in her lap. “I’m Louise by the way.”

“Tarian. Pleased to meet you.” Tarian shook Louise’s hand. “Were you at school with Cassie?”

“That’s right.” A wicked grin lit up Louise’s face. “The tales I could tell you.”

“But won’t,” interrupted Cassie.

“Spoilsport.” Louise gave Murphy a glance. “I don’t think I should move for a bit. Could you do the honours with the cake and coffee, Cass?”

“Glad to.” She stood up and went through to the kitchen.

While the water in the electric kettle boiled, she gazed out of the window into the back garden, where Anwar and Drysi were tussling. Louise and her husband had spent a small fortune on renovating the lawn and flower borders, and the result looked a picture. She hoped the dogs’ exuberant play wouldn’t damage it.

The kettle clicked off. Cassie poured boiling water on the coffee, set the timer, and carried the tray with the cake on it into the sitting room. Tarian had squatted next to Louise’s armchair, and was looking at some photographs. Cassie put the tray on the coffee table and regarded her with trepidation.

“They’re not incriminating photos of me, are they?”

“Tsk!” said Louise. “Self-centred or what? No, Cass. I reserve the right to bring out those photos later. These are of my bluebottles.”

“Sorry. I’d forgotten all about those.” Cassie frowned. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any flies.”

Louise grimaced. “Count yourself lucky. I found a couple in the bedroom this morning. It won’t be long before they’re back.”

“Let me see.” Cassie held out a hand, and Tarian placed a couple of photos in it. She turned them this way, then that, not quite sure what she was looking at. Suddenly they sprang into focus. A dense, glistening, blue-black mat of flies covered the countertops in the kitchen. It made her skin crawl just to look at them. She looked at the second photo. Flies coated the taps and sink in the bathroom and came halfway up the walls.

“My God, Lou! When you said you had a fly problem I didn’t imagine anything like this.”

“Aren’t I lucky?” Louise gave her a wry smile.

“And they don’t know where they’re coming from?”

“Haven’t a clue. It’s not even the right time of year. Fly infestations normally occur in July or August, apparently, when farmers spread chicken manure on their fields.” Louise gestured vaguely. “Do you see any farms round here? Or smell any chicken manure?”

Cassie shook her head and handed the photos to Tarian who returned them to Louise. That faint beeping must be the timer in the kitchen. “Coffee’s ready,” she said. “I’ll fetch it.”

She brought the second tray into the sitting room and poured the coffee. Tarian settled back on the sofa.

“Help yourself to cake,” said Louise.

Cassie cut them all thick slices. “You’re very quiet,” she murmured, as she handed Tarian her slice. Come to think of it, Tarian was looking quite peaky. Her naturally pale skin looked even paler, and there was a tightness around her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Headache,” said Tarian.

“You should have said. I have some paracetamol.” She reached for her jacket pocket but Tarian put out a hand to stop her.

“Thanks, but that won’t help.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“What is it?” asked Louise, who had been watching the exchange.

“Tarian has a headache but I’ve only got paracetamol and she says that won’t work.”

“I have aspirin. Want me to get it for you?”

“No thanks. I’ll be fine,” said Tarian, around a mouthful of coffee cake. “This is delicious. Did you make it yourself?”

Cassie frowned at the patent topic change but said nothing.

“Marks and Spencer,” said Louise. She grinned. “Why bake a cake yourself when you can buy one of theirs?”

Cassie sipped her coffee. It occurred to her that Tarian’s headache could be a reaction to being away from Bourn Forest. She hadn’t expected the effects to manifest themselves so strongly or so quickly. If she’d known they were going to be this intense, she’d have insisted Tarian stay behind. Not that she’d have taken any notice. Tarian had a stubborn streak. It was just as well they were going to Sutton Park next. Tarian could recharge her batteries before they went to Cassie’s parents for dinner.

Ever the good hostess, Louise moved the conversation on to the subject of painting—Cassie had told her that Tarian was an artist—and Bourn’s Edge. It was Cassie’s turn to pull out photos she’d taken of Tarian’s house, the little village on the side of the hill, and the picturesque view across the valley.

“Wow,” said Louise, going through them. “You’re really in the sticks. Don’t you miss the city, Cass? I thought you were a suburban girl.”

“Me too.” She became aware of Tarian’s gaze. “But you know what? I must have changed. Because it feels like home.” Tarian smiled.

“Don’t you miss the cinema? Danny and Justin were grumpy because you’re not around to go with them anymore.”

Cassie chuckled. “Well, it had its disadvantages. My tastes weren’t always the same as theirs.” She glanced at Tarian. “If there’s anything we want to see, we go to the cinema in Ludlow, don’t we?”

“May I use your bathroom?” asked Tarian suddenly.

Louise blinked. “Of course. Top of the stairs, on the right. You can’t miss it.”

“I don’t know what’s up with her this morning,” said Cassie, after Tarian had left the sitting room.

“Time of the month?”

“Maybe.” Cassie had yet to get to grips with the reproductive cycle of the Fae. She suspected Tarian rarely if ever got periods, because from what she had let slip, Fae children were rare, produced only when both parents consciously set about creating them. She couldn’t very well tell her friend Tarian wasn’t human though.

While Louise chattered on about the holiday in New Zealand she and Sam were saving up for, Cassie kept one ear cocked. She heard the sound of water flushing, followed by footsteps descending the stairs.

Tarian reappeared in the doorway, clutching a large china doll. “Is this yours, Louise? I saw her on the landing.”

“Mitzi.” Louise grinned at her. “She was my mother’s and before her my grandmother’s.” She turned to Cassie. “Remember what a dreadful state she was in, Cass, her dress in tatters, paint chipped, one leg hanging off? Danny and Justin told me about a Doll Hospital that’s opened near them. I took her in last month, and now she’s as good as new.”

Cassie had never liked Mitzi, who was one of those ultra feminine dolls popular in Victorian times. Her dress was a monstrosity of lace and pink ribbons, frills and furbelows.

“I didn’t know you liked dolls, Tarian,” she said, even as it struck her that the way Tarian was holding the doll indicated the opposite.

“I don’t.” Tarian resumed her seat next to Cassie. “But there’s something about this one.”

Fortunately Louise took that as a compliment. “She is striking, isn’t she?” Murphy chose that moment to vacate Louise’s lap and race towards the kitchen. “Looks like the effects of the chicken liver wore off.”

Louise held out a hand for the doll, and after a pause Tarian obliged—a pause during which Tarian’s lips moved, and, hidden from Louise’s view, she traced a complicated design with her finger.

Cassie narrowed her eyes. Was she working a spell? Tarian palmed something that looked like a wrinkled brown kidney bean.

While Louise fussed over her doll, straightening its dress, and gabbling about its history, and how good a job the restorer at the Doll Hospital had done, Cassie caught Tarian’s gaze and held it. “What did you do?” she mouthed.

Tarian pressed a finger to her lips and gestured. With a faint popping noise, the bean vanished.

“What was that?” asked Louise, looking up in surprise.

Until that moment, Cassie hadn’t realised how tense and uncomfortable she had felt since entering her friend’s house. Relief made her feel a little light-headed. It was as though—she searched for a simile—as though the imminent threat of a thunderstorm had vanished. She glanced at Tarian and saw the tightness around her eyes had gone and her colour was returning to normal.

“What happened?” she mouthed.

Tarian smiled and mouthed back, “Later.”

“You didn’t hear anything, feel anything?” asked Louise.

Cassie shook her head, and Tarian reached for what remained of her coffee cake and began to eat. Louise shrugged and let the matter drop.

A miaow heralded Murphy’s reappearance from the kitchen. He strolled across the carpet, climbed into Louise’s lap, and made himself comfortable. She laughed as he butted her hand with his nose, and set aside the doll and began to stroke him. “He’s at home here already. I don’t think you’ll need to worry about him, Cass.”

“That’s a weight off my mind. You’ve seen Tarian’s dogs. Keeping him wasn’t an option. I can’t thank you and Sam enough.”

“Sam doesn’t know about him yet.” Louise looked guilty. “But I’m sure he’ll be all right. Oh, he’ll sulk about not being consulted, but I’ll tell him it was a birthday present from my best friend, and he’ll come around.”

Cassie grinned.

“I just hope the flies don’t give Murphy a stomach upset,” mused Louise. “Cats sometimes eat flies, don’t they?”

“There won’t be any more flies,” said Tarian.

“No?” Louise looked at her in surprise. “Well,” she said doubtfully, “I suppose we can always hope.”

Chapter 4

“You’re sure the flies won’t come back?”

Tarian glanced at Cassie. “Positive.” There had been a thoughtful silence since she’d told Cassie about the artefact. That silence appeared to be over.

Cassie turned right at the crossroads. The road began to dip. “And all because you destroyed the kidney bean?”

“Ill luck attractor,” corrected Tarian, eying a group of walkers with rucksacks on their backs. If the walkers hadn’t indicated the park was close by, her senses would have told her. There was a refreshing scent and fizz to the air coming in through the half-open window that had been missing since Bourn’s Edge.

“It’s easier to say kidney bean,” said Cassie. “And you say you’ve come across them before, in Faerie?”

Tarian nodded. The creation of ill luck attractors was one of the first spells taught to young Fae (lessons in detecting and destroying them followed soon after), and it was common to use them to play tricks on their peers. The novelty soon wore off, though.

The road began to rise. To their left, behind low railings, was a grassy bank, in which were set the wide steps of an artificial waterfall—the overflow from a pool. Up ahead she saw an open gate and signs saying, “Sutton Park National Nature Reserve. Boldmere Gate.”

“How on earth did a Fae artefact get inside Louise’s doll?” asked Cassie, braking to negotiate the gate’s cattle grid. She bumped over a ramp, found a vacant parking spot in the car park just inside the gate, and turned off the ignition.

Tarian looked around her with interest. On a grassy area, bounded by a belt of trees, families were picnicking, playing ball games, or throwing frisbees. To her left were a steakhouse and grill, a children’s funfair, and a vast expanse of water on which sailing boats were tacking to and fro.

Cassie saw the direction of her gaze. “Powell’s Pool,” she said.

Tarian picked up the thread of their previous conversation. “Obviously, someone must have put the attractor in the doll.”

“I know that, silly. But who? And more to the point why?”

“The answer to that depends on when.”

“What?” Cassie blinked at her then shook her head and muttered, “Could this conversation get any more cryptic?”

Tarian grinned and undid her seat belt. “Think about it. When did the plague of flies first start bothering Louise?”

Cassie considered. “Sometime last month, I think she said.”

“And when did she get that doll repaired?”

“About the same time. Oh!” Blonde eyebrows shot up. “You mean someone at the Doll Hospital put the bean into the doll?”

Tarian nodded and reached for the door handle.

“But why?”

Tarian got out and turned to let out the dogs. They shook themselves, and set about sniffing everything within reach. “A malicious prank?”

“Some prank! Those flies looked like something out of a biblical plague.”

“Shall we get some lunch?” Tarian pointed to the steakhouse.

“Those two slices of coffee cake haven’t gone down yet. And we don’t want to spoil our appetites. Mum and Dad will be stuffing us tonight for certain.” Cassie’s cheeks pinked.

Her embarrassment made Tarian smile. “They’re allowed to spoil you,” she said. “You’re their only child.”

“I suppose. No doubt they’ll be trying to impress you too.”

Tarian was sceptical. Cassie’s parents would be more likely to resent this stranger who had changed their daughter’s life so dramatically. But she said, “Of course.”

Cassie had been scanning her surroundings and now pointed. Tarian was wondering what a carousel, a go kart track, and swing boats decorated with the skull-and-crossbones could have to do with lunch when she realised Cassie was pointing at the refreshment kiosk. A queue of children showed it was doing a roaring trade.

“Let’s get some ice cream,” said Cassie, confirming her guess. “That should keep us going until dinner.”

“All right.”

They had set off towards the kiosk, the dogs circling them, when they heard a loud “Oi!”

Tarian halted and looked round. A man in uniform was striding towards them. He stopped in front of them and frowned up at Tarian. “Dogs should be kept on a lead, miss. Especially dogs that size.”

“Sorry,” said Cassie. “We didn’t know. Is it because of the children?”

His expression softened as he turned to face her. “No, miss. The wildlife. At this time of year, dogs are in danger of disturbing ground-nesting birds.” Tarian thought it unlikely there were any ground-nesting birds in such a busy part of the park, but he forestalled her objection with, “And because of the bylaws.” He quoted: “‘During April, May and June, in all open areas of the Park, dogs must be kept on leads.’”

“Oh.” Cassie glanced at Tarian. “We must have missed that sign.”

Tarian called the dogs to heel. The speed with which they came impressed the ranger though he tried to remain impassive.

“Their leads are in the car,” she said. “May we fetch them after we’ve had our ice creams?”

He cocked his head, as if he suspected her of being impertinent. “All right.” His tone was grudging. “But see that you do. Big dogs like those, even if they’re well behaved, can scare people.”

“Thank you,” said Cassie. “We won’t be long.”

As he wandered off in search of more lawbreakers, she gave Tarian rueful glance. “They’ve tightened up the rules since I was here last.”

“When was that?”

“When I was still at school. We came to walk one of the Nature Trails.”

Cassie treated them both to a Ninety-nine. Tarian enjoyed it, though she wished they’d been a bit more generous with the stick of flaky chocolate protruding from the vanilla ice cream. She broke up the last of the cornet and tossed it to the dogs, who wolfed it down and looked at her for more.

“No more until dinner,” said Tarian. “Can’t have you getting fat.” Their expressions were the equivalent of canine outrage, and she smiled as she retrieved the leads from the car’s glove compartment.

Anwar and Drysi submitted gloomily while she attached the leads to their collars. “I’ll let you off when we get to the woods.” She handed Anwar’s lead to Cassie and took Drysi’s herself, letting it unreel to its fullest extent.

“Which way?” asked Cassie.

Tarian pointed to the belt of trees separating the grassy picnic area from the rest of the park. “There’s something I want to investigate.” She had become aware of a tingling energy emanating from that direction. It tugged at her with its familiarity, and was the last thing she had expected to find here.

“Oh?” Green eyes drilled into her. “What?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a league in that direction.” Both dogs turned their heads to follow her pointing finger.

“How far’s a league?” wondered Cassie. “It’s not another of those kidney bean things, is it?”

“No.”

“I don’t want to tire you out, but you look all right.” Cassie scrutinised her. “In fact you seem to have perked up since we arrived.”

“I feel brighter already,” said Tarian. “Shall we take a look?”

“Okay. We must leave by five at the latest, though. I promised Mum.” Cassie set off in the direction Tarian had pointed, and Tarian followed.

“Thanks.”

They walked through the belt of trees and started up the heather-covered slope behind it. The dogs ranged out as far as the leads would allow then circled back, making a game of it, but Tarian grew tired of having her arm almost jerked from its socket, and when the lead threatened to trip up Cassie for the third time told them to stop it. After that, the walking was easier.

In the sky ahead, dark shapes swooped and banked. Tarian squinted at them in puzzlement. “Crows?” But they didn’t move like birds.

“Model airplanes,” said Cassie.

The tingling sensation was getting stronger. Tarian corrected their course, steering more to the right. They crossed the road.

“Holly Hurst,” said Cassie.

“What?”

“That’s where you’re heading. I think it’s one of the oldest woods in the park.”

There was indeed an area of woodland directly ahead of them. If the density and spiky nature of the trees didn’t prove a deterrent to members of the public, the two-bar fence enclosing them might. They halted in front of it, and Tarian made out the shapes of individual trees and bushes. Oak, holly, alder, silver birch. Native species.

“There are footpaths, but I don’t think many people use them,” said Cassie. “Odd how I never played here as a child. I was a great one for climbing trees—I must have found this place too daunting. Or prickly. Or both.”

Anwar and Drysi took advantage of their long leads to duck under the fence and sniff around. Anwar cocked his leg against a tree trunk and returned to Cassie’s side.

“Are you going to tell me about this feeling?”

Tarian glanced at her. “I’m fairly certain there’s a crossing into Faerie here. It feels the same as the one in Bourn Forest.”

Cassie’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“I’d like to investigate it. Not now, because we haven’t got time. And I wouldn’t go myself,” she added, before Cassie could object. “I’d send the dogs and ask them to report back.”

“Oh.” Cassie looked thoughtful. “I don’t suppose that would do any harm.” She pulled a face. “Trust you to get exiled from Faerie twice.”

“It’s not as if I planned it,” said Tarian, amused rather than offended. She slipped her arm round Cassie’s waist. “Later then. Shall we head back to the car?”

“Okay.”

As they walked back, Cassie was pensive. Tarian was content to leave her to own thoughts while she enjoyed Nature all around her and sucked untainted air into her lungs.

They had almost reached the belt of trees beyond which lay Powell’s Pool when Cassie said, “About that kidney bean.”

“Mm?”

“It’s something only someone from Faerie could have created, isn’t it?”

Tarian nodded.

“And now we’ve found this. An entrance to Faerie. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“There are entrances all over the British Isles, Cassie. Though most have fallen into disrepair.”

“Since you can sense it, let’s suppose this one hasn’t.”

“All right.”

“Let’s also suppose a Fae came through it, made his or her way to the Doll Hospital, planted the bean in Louise’s doll and went home again.”

“It’s not something a Fae would do,” said Tarian, wondering how to put it without being insulting. “We’re a proud people, Cassie. Targeting a mortal at random and from a distance would be . . .”

“Beneath you?”

“Mm. Perhaps if Louise had offended a Fae enough for him to bear her a grudge. But even then.” She grimaced. “An ill luck attractor? Unlikely.”

“But suppose, for argument’s sake, such a thing happened,” said Cassie.

Tarian sighed. “All right.”

“Have you sensed any Fae in the vicinity?”

“Apart from me?” She shook her head.

“Bang goes that theory.” Cassie wrinkled her nose. “More to the point,” she said, as though speaking to herself, “where is Louise likely to have come across, let alone offended, any of the Fae?”

“Where indeed?”

The car came into view, and they shortened the dogs’ leads in case the park ranger was lurking. Cassie felt in her jacket pocket for her car keys and pointed the fob. Door locks clunked open.

“So what other explanation is there?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet.” Tarian opened the back door and urged the dogs up onto the seat. “But I will.”

Chapter 5

The wonderful aroma of roasting lamb assailed Cassie’s nostrils. “Mum. Dad. We’re here,” she shouted. She looked back to where Tarian was standing in the porch. “Come in, and bring the dogs.”

“Cassie!” Her mother appeared from the kitchen and hurried towards her. Cassie found herself enveloped in a hug and felt warm lips pressed to her cheek. Her mother had been to the hairdresser’s recently. In Tarian’s honour? She held Cassie at arm’s length and examined her with a smile. “You’re looking much better than the last time we saw you.”

“Indeed she is,” said her father, looming, if a man of five-foot-seven could be said to loom. “Thank goodness you’re back safe and sound. Don’t I get a kiss?” He had dressed for the occasion in a new pair of chinos and the navy Argyle sweater she had bought him for Christmas.

After she’d kissed him fondly on the cheek, Cassie stood back and indicated Tarian. “This is Tarian Brangwen.”

“Pleased to meet you, Tarian.” Cassie’s mother held out a hand, realised it was greasy, apologised, wiped it on her apron, and held it out again.

“How do you do, Mrs. Lewis,” said Tarian, shaking it. “And you, Mr. Lewis.” He didn’t offer her his hand, just nodded. Cassie recognised that reserved expression. He hadn’t made up his mind about Tarian yet.

Anwar let out a whine, and all eyes turned towards him. He licked his chops and nudged the foil-wrapped parcel of meat Tarian was carrying.

“I’d better feed them,” said Tarian. “Is it all right to take them outside?”

Cassie’s mother smiled. “Of course, dear. You can get to the back garden through the kitchen.” She pointed.

Tarian disappeared, followed by the dogs, tails wagging, and Cassie found herself alone with her parents.

“We were so worried when you disappeared into the back of beyond,” said her father. “We didn’t know what to think.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, Dad. I couldn’t think what else to do.” They’d already had this conversation several times over the phone, but the threat to her life had left him unsettled, and she suspected it would be a while before he stopped rehashing events. “Everything’s all right now,” she soothed. “Armitage is in a coma. He’s no longer a threat.”

“You shouldn’t have got mixed up with him in the first place.”

“You can’t choose your landlord, Dad.”

“Even so.”

“Oh leave her alone, Rick,” said her mother. “It’s all over, and she’s here and in one piece. Aren’t you, love?” She beamed. “We’re honoured you brought Tarian to meet us.”

Her father sniffed. “She knows she can always bring her friends home for a visit.”

It hadn’t been her home for years, but Cassie kept that thought to herself. As for the “friend” remark . . . “Tarian’s much more than a friend,” she protested. “I’m moving in with her.”

“We know that, silly.” Her mother gave him a sharp glance. “How’s the packing going?” A distant timer pinged. “Never mind. Tell us about it over dinner. I’ve got mint to chop and vegetables to check on.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

Silence fell, then Cassie’s father said, “It’s a long way from Birmingham to that Bourn’s Edge of yours.”

“Not that far.”

“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?” He held her gaze. “You’ve only known her a few weeks.”

“I’m sure,” said Cassie.

“How old is she?”

“Early thirties, I think.” She hadn’t plucked up the courage to ask yet. Tarian looked in her thirties, but the Fae aged more slowly than humans, and learning that Tarian was older than her parents might be . . . disconcerting.

“She looks like she should be on the catwalk.” He frowned. “What on earth does she want with someone like you?”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He waved a dismissal. “You know what I mean. She’s not been taking advantage of you, has she? Forcing you to do anything you don’t want to?”

“Dad!” Cassie blushed. What she and Tarian did in the bedroom was none of his business. She was certainly not going to tell him that, when it came to lovemaking, Tarian was knowledgeable and generous, and Cassie for one was eager to repeat the experience as often as possible. “I’m twenty-seven not seven. I can look after myself.”

He looked sceptical. “Didn’t seem that way when you were on the run.”

“That was different. Anyway, things turned out all right, didn’t they?” Thanks to Tarian. “In a way, I’m grateful to Armitage. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have met her.”

He changed tack. “Giving up your perfectly good job at the library too. What will you live on? Is she rich?”

“I have no idea how much she earns from her paintings. Enough to get by, I imagine. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got myself a new job, Dad. I start next week.”

“Doing what?”

“Driving the mobile library.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Driving the—”

“Don’t be such a snob. It’s not that different from what I was doing in Birmingham.”

“Hm.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

The kitchen door opened, and Tarian stepped into the hall, bringing with her the appetising aroma of dinner.

“The dogs are fed.” Tarian glanced from Cassie to her father and back, and arched an eyebrow.

“What breed are they?” he asked.

“Wolfhound.”

“Need exercising a lot, I suppose?” He picked an imaginary piece of lint off his sweater.

“Quite a lot. Fortunately, it’s safe to let them off their leads where I live, so they largely exercise themselves.” Tarian came to stand beside Cassie.

“And how long have you lived in Bourn’s Edge?”

“Two years.”

“And before that?”

“Dad!” Cassie slipped her hand into Tarian’s and gave it an apologetic squeeze. “Sorry about the third degree.”

“No need. He’s your father. Protectiveness goes with the job.” Tarian’s statement earned her a look of approval, his first, and Cassie felt some of her tension ease.

“Dinner’s nearly ready,” called Cassie’s mother, putting her head round the kitchen door. “Cassie, love, can you come and help me serve up. Rick, show Tarian where she can wash her hands.”

“Right. It’s, um, through here.”

While he led Tarian to the downstairs toilet off the hall, Cassie joined her mother in the kitchen. In companionable silence, they sliced the lamb joint, which was slightly pink in the middle, the way she liked it, and drained peas, carrots, and potatoes.

Cassie turned to her mother. “How much shall I put?”

“You know Tarian’s appetite better than I do. Put as much as you think she can eat. And give your father plenty of potatoes. You know he likes them.”

When the food had been doled out, Cassie helped her mother carry the heavy plates into the dining room. The scent from a vase of freesias wafted to her as she took her seat next to Tarian, and she was touched to see her mother had used her best table linen and wine glasses.

Her father was in the middle of trying to sell Tarian a car—he was the manager of the local car showroom and liked to wax knowledgeable about the latest makes and models.

“Dad,” hissed Cassie, while her mother asked Tarian if she’d like some mint sauce. “She doesn’t drive.”

He regarded her as though she were insane. “Everybody drives, Cassie.”

“She’s right, Mr. Lewis.” Tarian passed the sauce jug to Cassie, followed by the gravy boat. “I don’t drive. I ride horses though.”

His cheeks reddened, and he busied himself pouring out the wine. Then he cleared his throat and cast around for a new topic. Cassie braced herself. “How’s the packing going?”

She relaxed. “We’ve made a start, Dad, but there wasn’t much point getting stuck in until the packing cases arrive. They’re being delivered tomorrow.”

“Have you got much to take with you, love?” asked her mother.

“More than I thought.” It was surprising how much junk she accumulated over the years. Not to mention the TV, DVD player, hifi system, and computer—how Tarian managed without such necessities Cassie had no idea. “It’s just as well most of the flat’s furniture isn’t mine. Tarian wouldn’t have had room for it.”

Tarian shrugged. “I’d have made room.”

Cassie’s father leaned forward. “How big exactly is this house of yours?”

“There’s plenty of space for both of us,” said Cassie, before Tarian could reply. “I’ve brought some photos of it with me. And some photos of the village and the local views too. You can see them after dinner. All right?”

He sat back. “All right.”

They finished the first course, and Cassie’ mother collected up the plates—declining her offer of help—and brought in dessert.

Cassie beamed when she saw it was a childhood favourite: blackberry and apple pie. She added a dollop of cream and took a mouthful. “Mm. Did you pick these yourselves, Mum?” They had often gone bramble picking as a family in Sutton Park. The taste of the wild fruit more than made up for any aching backs and scratched fingers and the palaver of soaking grubs out of berries with salted water.

“Yes, love. Last year.” Her mother smiled. “They’ve been sitting in the freezer, waiting for a special occasion.”

“Talking of the park, we popped in before we came here—Powell’s Pool and Holly Hurst. Gave the dogs a good run.”

“That’s nice. You haven’t been in for a while, have you?”

“No.” Cassie scooped up another mouthful of pie, and noticed Tarian was enjoying hers too.

Her father put his spoon down on an almost clean bowl. “So, Tarian,” he said. “How long have you had those dogs?”

“Since they were born.”

“You breed them?” Cassie’s mother sounded surprised. “I thought you were an artist.”

“I am. But wolfhounds are good company, and I spend a lot of time on my own.” She glanced at Cassie and amended, “Or rather I did.”

“When I was little, I wanted a dog,” mused Cassie. “But I wasn’t allowed to have one.”

“Because you’d have got bored with it, and guess who would have ended up looking after the poor thing,” said her mother.

There was some truth in that. But Cassie pouted, remembering what a canine companion would have meant to the often lonely only child she had been.

“You have two now,” said Tarian.

Cassie smiled at her. Anwar and Drysi were Tarian’s dogs, and they both knew it, but the sentiment was appreciated. “Thank you.”

“In my defence, Cassie,” said her mother, “I was never really convinced you were serious about having a dog. Or you would have got yourself one when you moved in to your own place.”

“The flat was too small,” said Cassie. She pulled a face. “I shouldn’t even have had a cat really.”

“Will Murphy be going to Bourn’s Edge with you?” chimed in her father.

“Um, no. He didn’t take to the dogs, nor the dogs to him. Luckily, Louise has agreed to adopt him. We took him round there this morning.”

“How is Louise? It’s been a while since we saw her, but we’ve heard strange things.” He frowned. “Involving flies.” He looked at his wife for confirmation. She nodded.

“That’s right,” said Cassie. “The pest control people practically had to move in. But it’s under control now.” She looked at Tarian, who was finishing off her last spoonful of pie.

“What is it about your friends?” wondered her father.

“What do you mean?”

“I bumped into Danny and Justin the other day,” he went on, “and they’re going through the wars too.”

Cassie exchanged a glance with Tarian. “Really?”

Her father looked surprised. “Don’t tell me they haven’t told you about the freak tornado? Or the lightning strike? Or the burst water main?”

Cassie blinked and shook her head. “They probably tried to email me, but we’re not online at Tarian’s yet.”

“Well, they need part of the roof replaced, a new TV and computer, new carpets throughout. Heaven knows what else.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Not all at the same time, or they’d be wondering if someone had painted a large bull’s-eye on their house.” Her father grinned to show he was joking, but it occurred to Cassie that he might not be that far off the mark. “The tornado was three weeks ago, wasn’t it, Sarah?” He looked to her mother for confirmation, and she nodded. “The lightning strike the week after. And the water main only last week.”

“I don’t suppose they’ve had a doll mended or restored recently, have they?” asked Cassie.

Her parents exchanged astonished glances. “What an odd question,” said her mother.

“As if Danny and Justin would have dolls,” scoffed her father.

Cassie stifled a grin. She knew for a fact that Danny had a collection of superhero figures. “Never mind. I’ll ask them myself.”

“Talking of dolls,” said her mother. “I was having a clear out of the spare room last week, and I came across Teddy.” Cassie blinked at her. “You know. That ugly little bear that went everywhere with you when you were a child.”

Memory flooded back. “Oh, Teddy. I used to suck his ears.”

“Unhygienic,” muttered her unsentimental father.

“He’s in a shocking state,” continued her mother. “He doesn’t squeak anymore, either. But I thought I’d better check with you before I threw him out.”

“You can’t throw Teddy out.”

“Oh come on, love. After all these years you can’t still be attached to him, surely?”

“Yes I can. If you aren’t going to give him a home anymore, then I will.”

“Those dogs will tear him to pieces,” warned her father.

“Not if I tell them not to,” said Tarian.

Cassie threw her a grateful glance. “He deserves some TLC, after all I put him through. Yes, I’ll take him, Mum.”

Her mother laughed and shook her head. “Have it your own way.”

THE PIGBOY LEANED on his pitchfork and wiped his forehead on the back of his hand. He’d been mucking out the stables for hours. Straw dust clogged his lungs and stuck to sweat-slicked skin and hair, and his bare feet were coated in dung. He must stink even worse than usual, but he had grown accustomed to the stench.

“Boar’s entrails! Not finished yet?” The farrier looked irritable. The rhythmic clangs of his hammer had provided an accompaniment to the pigboy’s work as he shaped metal into horseshoes and fitted those same shoes to his lord’s mounts. His tunic was as soaked with sweat, but unlike the pigboy’s it had at least been clean on that morning.

“No, sir.”

“Lazy, good for nothing runt.” The farrier scowled and raised one meaty fist.

The pigboy flinched but held his ground—at least this Fae’s beatings never involved magic. “I’m going as fast as I can, sir. Two more barrow loads to shift, then I’ll be done.”

“Speak back to me, would you? Insolence!”

In the event, it was the other hand that struck the pigboy, the one holding the horseshoe. The blow knocked all sense out of him for a while, and when he returned to himself, he was staring up at the rafters, soaking wet—a bucket of water had been thrown over him.

“Finish your mucking out. And be quick about it.” The farrier’s gaze was unapologetic. “The horses need stabling.”

With a headache that would fell an ox, and ears still ringing, the pigboy heaved himself to his feet. In the gloom he searched for the pitchfork and grabbed it from where it had fallen. “At once, sir.”

Chapter 6

Tarian sipped her beer and took in her surroundings. Only a few tables in the pub’s back garden were occupied—by office workers, if their clothes were any indication. Monday lunchtimes weren’t the busiest of times, or perhaps most people preferred to eat and chat indoors.

More fool them.

She was glad to be out in the open. She and Cassie had spent the morning in the flat, dividing Cassie’s possessions into piles labelled “Chuck” and “Keep”—as Cassie was reluctant to throw anything away, the “Chuck” pile was almost nonexistent. They were wrapping china and glassware, getting newsprint everywhere, even on the dogs’ noses, and stowing them carefully in the packing cases when, to Tarian’s relief, Cassie announced it was time to keep the rendezvous she had made by phone last night.

Tarian set down her glass and closed her eyes, enjoying the sunshine on her eyelids and letting her senses roam. That steady breathing and rustle of clothing was Cassie on the shady bench opposite—her fair skin had a tendency to freckle. A blackbird trilled in a jasmine bush close by, fighting a losing battle against the High Street’s traffic roar. And those splashing sounds must be Anwar and Drysi exploring the ornamental fishpond.

“Don’t tease the goldfish,” she called, and heard Cassie chuckle.

A canine sneeze was followed by the sounds of paws padding across the concrete flagstones towards her. Two warm, furry shapes slumped against her ankles and something heavy, presumably a head, settled on her left boot.

“Comfortable?” she asked. An image of Anwar’s satisfied face appeared in her mind. She grinned.

“Where are they?” fretted Cassie. “They should have been here ten minutes ago.”

“I’m sure your friends will be here any minute,” said Tarian, eyes still closed.

“Ha! That shows how much you know. Justin is always late. It drives poor Danny up the wall.”

Tarian opened her eyes. “They’d have rung you if they weren’t coming.”

Cassie gave her a plaintive look. “I know. But I’m hungry.” Her growling stomach confirmed as much. “And you know how I get when I’m hungry.”

Tarian sat up. “We don’t have to wait.” A menu was propped between the salt and pepper pots. She handed it to Cassie, whose face brightened.

“Lasagne, I think.” She glanced at Tarian. “What about you?”

“The same.”

“Okay. I’ll go and order.”

Cassie grabbed her purse and set off towards the pub’s back door. Tarian watched her go, her gaze dwelling on the shapely rear. At the door two men, one tall and dark, one short and fair, blocked Cassie’s path. They were wearing faded blue jeans and black T-shirts sporting the white lettering “J & D Collectables” and from their delighted grins, they were Cassie’s friends. After a brief discussion, Cassie turned and pointed at Tarian’s table.

Cassie vanished indoors, and the men made their way over. Tarian’s scalp prickled as she felt the familiar discordant jangle of an ill luck attractor. It was coming from the plastic carrier bag the blond man was carrying. They stopped in front of her table. The dogs rose and went to investigate.

“I’m Justin. You must be Tarian.” The taller of the two men held out his hand. Delicate bone structure made him look pretty rather than handsome, and his shoulder-length curls were in need of a trim.

“Hello.” She shook his hand and gestured towards a free chair. He smiled and took it.

“And I’m Danny.” His partner’s handshake was firmer. He had compensated for thinning hair by growing a beard, and his stocky frame, snub nose, and jug-handle ears made him look like a boxer.

“Nice to meet you, Danny.” While he too sat, Tarian extended her senses, finding only a mix of nervousness and friendly curiosity. They were unaware of what was in the carrier bag. Good.

The dogs settled on their haunches next to Tarian and yawned.

“Did we pass canine inspection?” asked Justin.

“For now.” She didn’t tell him she had conducted an inspection of her own.

Danny dumped the carrier bag on the floor between his feet. Tarian tried to ignore its baleful presence, but it wasn’t easy; already she was feeling nauseous and getting a headache. He drummed stubby fingers on the beer-circle stained table and gave her a weak smile. “Nice day.”

Justin shot him an incredulous glance. “So, you’re Cassie’s girlfriend.”

She returned his direct gaze with one of her own. “I am.”

“Great.” He grinned. “We’ve been trying to get her fixed up for ages, haven’t we, Danny?”

“Picky,” muttered his partner, nodding. “Very picky.”

Tarian was about to ask him what he meant, when Cassie reappeared and headed towards them.

She resumed her seat and said slightly breathlessly, “I’ve paid for everyone. My treat. Chicken Kiev for you,” she told Danny, who beamed. “And Shepherd’s Pie for you, Justin. It’ll be ready in quarter of an hour. The beers are on the way.” She paused. “Have you introduced yourselves?”

Tarian nodded and reached for her glass.

“Good.” Cassie took a sip of her orange juice and regarded her friends. “No more lightning strikes since I rang you, I take it?”

Justin grimaced. “No, thank God. Our insurers were beginning to give us very funny looks.”

“They think someone’s made voodoo dolls of us and stuck pins in them,” joked Danny.

You’re not that far off the mark, thought Tarian.

“Shop going okay?” asked Cassie.

“Great.” Justin smiled at the middle-aged barmaid transferring brimming beer glasses from her tray to their table. “We’re shifting as many DCs and Marvels as we can get. And loads of Twilight figures.” He took a gulp of Guinness, wiped away his foam moustache, and gave a satisfied sigh.

“Those Eleven Doctors sets are popular too,” said Danny, draining half of his lager in one go.

“Anyway enough of that stuff,” said Justin. “What’s all this about wanting to see the action figure we had repaired three weeks ago?”

Cassie sniggered. “It’s a doll, Justin. Why can’t you admit it?”

He ignored her and turned to Danny. “Go on. Show them.”

Danny grabbed the carrier bag from between his feet and dumped it on the table. He pulled out a garish cardboard box, eased open the flap, and pulled out a seven-inch tall, articulated doll.

Tarian winced as the jangling sensation increased, and Cassie threw her a concerned glance. “Don’t worry,” she murmured.

The doll was male, its overdeveloped musculature reminding Tarian of Cadel. A mask obscured its eyes, and it was clad in a skin-tight costume of green and black. On its right hand—over white gloves, oddly—it wore an outsized green ring. Clutched in its left hand was a lantern.

“Green Lantern,” breathed Cassie. “I loved his comics when I was a kid.”

“You mean you aren’t a kid anymore?” Danny grinned. “Looks brand new, doesn’t he?” She nodded. “The paintwork was flaking but the Doll Hospital fixed it. They do good work.”

“That’s worth knowing. You asked what it’s about.” Cassie reached in her shoulder bag and pulled out her teddy bear. “This.” Stuffing was leaking from the cuddly toy’s middle, one of his eyes dangled by a thread, and an ear had been ripped off. “Oops!”

A glass eye bounced across the tabletop. Tarian grabbed it and handed it back.

“Good grief, Cassie!” said Justin. “What’s his name, Thread Bear? Why don’t you just buy yourself a new one?”

She stroked the bear’s stomach. “Sentimental reasons.” Its left leg dropped onto the flagstones. Drysi nudged it back to Cassie with her nose. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“The dogs have taken to you, I see,” said Danny, impressed. “Just as well, given the size of them.”

“Who ordered lasagne?” The barmaid had reappeared bearing two steaming plates.

Tarian indicated herself and Cassie and the woman set the plates in front of them, then departed to fetch their remaining orders.

“May I?” Tarian held out a hand. Danny regarded it in puzzlement, then his brow cleared, and he handed over Green Lantern.

Under the pretence of examining the action figure, it took her only a moment to determine that the attractor was inside its torso. When she returned Green Lantern, the device was nestling in her palm. Seconds later it had ceased to exist.

“All right?” mouthed Cassie.

Tarian smiled. Her nausea had gone and the backwash headache was already easing.

“So you’d recommend this Doll Hospital place, then?” said Cassie, as Danny replaced Green Lantern in his box and wedged the carrier bag between his feet once more.

Justin nodded. “It’s just along the High Street from here, if you want to give it a try.”

“Thanks. I’ll see what they make of Teddy.” Cassie stuffed the disreputable bear back in her shoulder bag and indicated the barmaid making her way towards them with a tray. “Ah. Here’s your lunch.”

CASSIE STOPPED PACING and looked at her watch. Nearly three o’clock.

She’d needed groceries, and Tarian wanted to walk the dogs, so after leaving the pub they had arranged to meet outside the Doll Hospital and gone their separate ways. The little supermarket had been deserted, though—perhaps because it was a Monday—so Cassie had finished her shopping sooner than expected.

She hoped the Doll Hospital’s interior was in a better state than its exterior. The plasterwork was crumbling, and old lettering—“Christian Science Reading Room”—was visible through the thin coat of whitewash.

Would Tarian mind if she went in on her own? It might even be for the best. If someone from Faerie ran the hospital they’d sense Tarian’s presence at once, whereas—Who was she kidding? She was just bored and making excuses. But what the hell.

Cassie pushed open the creaking front door and found herself in a cramped vestibule. On a three-legged table, next to a mangy looking spider plant, lay a stack of badly printed leaflets—price lists, she saw when she picked one up. Another door led her into a large, high-ceilinged room, smelling of glue.

A doll version of the Somme, was Cassie’s first thought as she took in the dismembered teddy bears and dolls strewn over four tables. But each doll’s body parts were neatly arranged so she revised her opinion. A field hospital.

Artificial light coming from the half-open door at the far end of the room indicated someone was on the premises. The doorbell’s tinkle should have alerted them to Cassie’s presence. Until they came to investigate, she would explore.

On closer inspection the baskets, bowls, and containers stacked on the wooden shelves against one wall proved to contain spare parts. Some were recognisable—tiny eyelashes for dolls, replacement pads for bears’ paws—some not. One basket held plastic arms and legs, another their porcelain equivalent. She decanted some blue and brown glass eyes into her palm, stirred them with her forefinger, and poured them back into their biscuit barrel container.

On another shelf lay pots of glue and small brushes; balls of what looked liked string but was elastic; scissors and pairs of pliers; a candle (useful for wax?); rolls of tape; swatches of leather, suede, and fabric fur; a fluffy mass of kapok stuffing; and a box of pins and needles. The white plastic cylinders puzzled her and she picked one up. A loud “Mama!” made her replace it hastily and turn to survey the tables once more.

It was a production line, of sorts. The jumbles of body parts on the table to the far left were the “Before,” the pristine looking dolls and bears on the table to the far right the “After.” Each doll required different treatment. On some, the plastic was discoloured, paintwork flaking. Others needed stuffing replaced and seams restitched. A few needed more drastic treatment.

She remembered her own teddy bear and pulled out the price list she had stuffed in her pocket. Refitting a leg would cost £8 and providing a new glass eye £7.

“May I help you?” came a man’s voice from behind her.

She turned, a hand pressed to her chest. “You startled me.”

“I beg your pardon. My name is James Farley, and I’m the proprietor of this establishment. Have you a doll you wish me to repair?”

Cassie found it hard not to stare. Danny and Justin had said the doll hospital’s owner was strange, and they hadn’t been kidding. His hair was a bright, carrot red, and though he looked to be in his early twenties, he dressed like an old fogey. That shabby corduroy suit with its embroidered waistcoat and fob watch wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Edwardian.

She unzipped her shoulder bag and pulled out Teddy. “I was wondering . . .”

He accepted the bear from her and peered at it through horn-rimmed spectacles. “Hm.” His tone was one of disapproval. “He’s in very poor condition.”

“I’m afraid so.” She gave a nervous laugh. “But I expect you get far worse, don’t you?” Somewhere, a door creaked open and a bell tinkled.

“Not often.”

“I’ve had him since I was a child,” she said, and fell silent. Why am I making excuses? “Can you fix him?”

He was about to reply, when he froze, his face a mask of horror.

“Are you all right?”

He was looking over her shoulder. Cassie turned and saw that Tarian and the two dogs were standing just inside the door leading from the vestibule. Tarian’s eyes were as wide as Cassie had ever seen them.

“Tar—” she began.

An arm clamped itself around Cassie’s throat, yanking her backwards. Waistcoat buttons dug into her back as the red-haired man held her against him. She tried to protest, but couldn’t. Tried to breathe, and couldn’t. Panic surfaced, and she dropped her shoulder bag and reached for the imprisoning arm. His grip tightened even more, until white specks flecked her vision and blackness began to crowd the edges. Wordlessly she begged Tarian for help.

“Get out or I’ll kill her.” His voice, shrill with fear, vibrated through Cassie.

“Let her go.” Tarian’s voice was as icy as her expression. “Now.” She raised her right hand and pointed at him.

“No!”

She traced an intricate design, and her lips moved.

“You can’t—” The words became a high-pitched shriek, and the arm around Cassie’s throat was suddenly easy to pry loose.

Elbowing her captor in guts that were surprisingly hard, she broke free. With an odd, muffled clatter he slumped to the floor, but she paid him little attention. She was too busy rubbing her bruised elbow and sucking in great gulps of air.

“Are you all right?” Tarian’s arms enclosed her.

Cassie leaned into her embrace, “I think so,” she croaked. She raised a hand to her throat, but Tarian’s long fingers got there first. The burning ache eased. “Thanks,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around Tarian and holding on for dear life.

After a while the terror ebbed enough that she could take in her surroundings once more. At their feet lay a man-sized doll, sprawling like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Coarse red wool sprouted from its crudely carved head, horn-rimmed spectacles perched on its wedge of a nose, and a corduroy suit with an embroidered waistcoat clothed the solid wooden torso and jointed limbs.

Anwar seized one of the doll’s sleeves between his teeth, flopping the hand inside it to and fro. Drysi did the same with a trouser leg. The effect was part comical, part grotesque. Satisfied the doll posed no further threat, they wandered off to sniff the rest of the room.

A sense of unreality stole over Cassie. “A doll?”

“A changeling,” said Tarian. “He was using a glamour to appear human. But I knew the moment I saw him.”

“I thought they only existed in fairy stories.”

“No.” Tarian pinched the bridge of her nose.

Cassie registered the tightness around her eyes and the paler than usual pallor. “Are you okay?”

“This place is crawling with ill luck attractors.”

“Oh! Sorry, love. Don’t worry about me. Do what you have to do.”

Tarian crossed to one of the biscuit barrels Cassie had yet to examine. Removing the lid revealed dozens of kidney beans. Her lips moved, and she gestured. With a popping sound, the artefacts disappeared.

“Is that the lot?” asked Cassie.

“Unfortunately not.” Tarian pointed to the table of finished dolls and bears. “There are more in those.”

“They must be awaiting collection.” A thought struck Cassie. “Oh crap! How many more are out there? He must have repaired dozens of the things.”

“Let’s find out.”

Tarian strode through the half-open door into the office beyond. Cassie followed and found her bending over an untidy desk, sorting through sheaves of papers and stacks of account books—the changeling’s method of bookkeeping had been as antiquated as his attire.

With a satisfied grunt Tarian straightened and waved a shabby book at Cassie. “Receipt book.” She opened it at random. “Names and addresses. Look.”

Cassie’s heart sank. “We won’t have to track them all down in person, will we?”

Tarian shook her head. “I’ll use this book to feed a spell that will track down and dissolve all the attractors for us.”

“Thank God for that.”

“God has nothing to do with it.” Tarian gave her a smile. “Now hush and let me work.” She thought for a moment, then traced a symbol and murmured the gibberish that Cassie had learned was arcane Fae.

When the spell’s backwash had passed, and Tarian’s colour was looking a lot better, Cassie asked, “Has that done the trick?”

“My headache’s gone,” said Tarian.

“That’s good. But I was talking about the dolls.”

“So was I. There are no more attractors in the vicinity. Getting rid of those further afield will take a few more days.”

“Wonderful.” Cassie gave her an enthusiastic hug.

They went back through to the other room and halted by common consent.

“Why on earth did he do it?” Cassie regarded the sprawl of clothing and wooden limbs on the floor. “Why inflict bad luck on complete strangers? What had they ever done to him?”

“Who knows why changelings do things?”

Tarian’s comment reminded Cassie of something. “They’re left in exchange for human babies, aren’t they?”

“Used to be. Mab outlawed the practice years ago.”

“But a Fae could have broken the law. Somewhere in Faerie could be the real James Farley, the human child taken from its parents at birth?”

“No Fae crosses the Queen if they can avoid it, Cassie. It’s too dangerous.”

But if the motive were strong enough . . . “Why would a Fae want a human baby anyway?”

Tarian shrugged. “Why do humans want pets at Christmas?”

Cassie gave her a stricken glance. If the Fae treated snatched babies the way some people treated pets after the novelty had worn off . . .

“He wouldn’t be a baby now, anyway,” continued Tarian, sounding indifferent. “Judging by the changeling’s appearance, the child should be in his early twenties. He might even be dead by now.”

“What if he’s still alive?”

Tarian’s expression became evasive. “Some Fae doted on the babies they stole.”

“What about the rest?” Cassie folded her arms. “If he’s not dead, and not doted on, Tarian, what then?”

Tarian sighed. “There have been cases where Fae used a mortal child as a servant,” she admitted with obvious reluctance. “But such cases are rare.”

Cassie stared at her in dismay. “Then we have to find out what happened to the real James Farley.” Tarian opened her mouth but Cassie pressed on, driven by a strong sense of injustice. “Don’t you see? If we don’t find out whether he’s all right we’ll be as bad as those who abducted him in the first place.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Tarian, her expression resigned.

Cassie stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Thank you.” She retrieved her shoulder bag, from which Teddy appeared to be trying to escape, and shoved him back inside.

“What about him?” asked Tarian, glancing at the cuddly toy. “Who’s going to repair him for you now?”

Why didn’t I think of this before? “Couldn’t you just put a spell on him? Make him as good as new?”

Tarian grinned. “If you ask me nicely,” she said.

Chapter 7

“There’s one.” Tarian pointed to the empty space. In fact they were spoiled for choice. It was ten minutes to Sutton Park’s closing time and the car park closest to Holly Hurst was empty.

Cassie parked the car, undid her seat belt, and stretched. “What if a park ranger spots the car while we’re gone?”

Tarian opened the passenger door and got out. “I’ll cloak it.” She inhaled, enjoying the invigoration the clean air brought with it, then opened the rear door. The dogs bounded out, shook themselves, and set about investigating interesting smells.

“I don’t know about this.” Cassie gazed towards the wood. “I’ve never been camping without proper gear and supplies. As for spending the night, suppose it rains?”

Tarian considered the cloud formations. “It won’t.”

“And suppose it gets cold.”

“I’ll keep you warm.”

Cassie threw her a glance. “Promise?”

Tarian laughed and draped an arm round her shoulders. “We can do that too,” she whispered. “We’ll have plenty of time while we’re waiting.”

Cassie’s eyes brightened. “Good.” She checked her watch. “Almost closing time. We’d better hide the car and get under cover.”

“All right.” It was the work of a moment for Tarian to invoke the cloaking spell—Cassie couldn’t help letting let out a yelp of dismay when her car disappeared—then they set off walking. She hadn’t put the dogs on leads this time so they careered around enjoying themselves.

“How long do you think it’ll take?” asked Cassie as they approached the wood.

“As long as it takes. There’s no guarantee the dogs will find anything,” warned Tarian. “The scent could have gone cold after all these years.”

“Have you got the doll?”

Tarian patted her jacket pocket, feeling for the lump inside that was the changeling, and nodded.

“It was weird seeing you shrink it like that.”

“Much easier to carry.”

“I know but . . . Hey. Can you make things taller too?” Cassie scratched her nose. “I get tired of being called a titch.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow. “Where would be the fun in that?” Their relative heights made it easy for Cassie to nestle her head against Tarian’s breasts.

Cassie snickered and said, “Never mind.”

They reached the fence. The dogs slunk under it, Tarian vaulted over it, and Cassie squeezed through the space between the two cross bars. The scent of foliage and leaf mould was strong and slightly bitter. Tarian separated and identified its constituent parts. Oak, holly, ash, rowan . . .

Cassie sneezed and blew her nose on a hanky. “Which way?”

Tarian pointed and set off, pushing her way between the tree trunks. “Keep up or you’ll get scratched,” she told Cassie, invoking a spell to make the branches twist out of their way. In response Cassie pressed close to Tarian’s heels. The dogs brought up the rear, snuffling at leaves and toadstools, and darting off to investigate rustlings in the undergrowth.

In Faerie, Tarian would have kept a weather eye out for stag and boar, but the wildlife in Holly Hurst would be smaller and less dangerous—birds, squirrels, stoats, badgers, hedgehogs . . . Her thoughts flashed ahead to supper. Roast hedgehog made good eating but it took some time to cook. And would Cassie be prepared to eat the result?

“How much farther?” puffed Cassie, after they had been walking for ten minutes and had negotiated a dense coppice of silver birch.

“Not far. Can’t you feel it?” The boundary’s nearness was making the hair on Tarian’s arms stand up. The dogs too were excited, forging ahead.

Cassie’s gaze turned inwards. “No.”

A few more paces brought Tarian to the edge of an unexpected glade. It had once been light and airy, but over time trees and shrubs had encroached. In a few more years there would be no glade left. At its heart stood two alders, their fissured and twisted black trunks covered with moss and lichen. There must have been a spring here once, or a stream, for alders always grew near water, but there was no sign of it now. Perhaps its disappearance had added to the trees’ distress—one of them was dying.

The narrow gap between the alders shimmered like a heat haze. The crossing. “We’re here.”

Tarian called the dogs to heel. Twigs cracked and bluebell bulbs crunched beneath her boots as she stepped into the open.

“I think I can feel it now,” said Cassie, coming to join her. “It’s weaker than the one in Bourn Forest, isn’t it?”

Tarian nodded and pointed to the dying tree. “It’s failing along with that alder. In a few years Faerie will be inaccessible from here.”

She squatted and pulled the dogs close. “Anwar, Drysi.” She pulled the crude wooden doll from her pocket. “Smell this and remember its scent.” She sent mental images to match her words, and the dogs snuffled its clothing and limbs for several seconds, then let out a soft bark.

“Good dogs.” She fondled their ears. “Once you’re on the other side, seek out the same scent. Understand?” They barked again, to show that they did. “If you can’t find it, return at once. But if you can, follow it to its source and report back here to me.” Eyes bright with intelligence, they wagged their tails. “And don’t get caught.”

After giving them one last pat, Tarian stood up and shoved the doll back in her pocket. “Go.” She pointed to the gap between the alders. With an excited yelp the dogs sprang through it and disappeared.

She turned to Cassie. “Now we wait.”

LOUD BIRDSONG WOKE Tarian from her doze. The sky between the branches of the gnarled oak that had sheltered them was lightening perceptibly. Almost dawn. Glad it didn’t rain.

Careful not to wake the sleeping Cassie, she disentangled herself and stood up. Leaves and stalks of dry grass from their makeshift bedding clung to her jeans, and she brushed them off then stretched and yawned.

No sign of the dogs yet. They must have found something. I wish they hadn’t.

That last thought made her cast a guilty glance at Cassie, who, as she watched, rolled onto her back and lay sprawled in a state of utter relaxation, mouth open. Blue and white petals decorated Cassie’s hair—Tarian had amused herself by threading woodland flowers through it while she slept. She wondered what Cassie would say when she discovered them.

The embers in the stone-ringed fire pit were still emitting a faint warmth, but the makeshift spit and the piece of bark that had served as a platter were empty. During the night, a fox must have finished off what remained of the rabbit. Cassie had gaped as Tarian charmed a fat buck into the glade then killed, gutted, and skinned it, before stuffing it with a few leaves of Jack-by-the-hedge—she liked the tang of garlic. She grinned, remembering what had come next. While supper cooked, they had made love by firelight. The rabbit had been slightly charred by the time they were ready to eat, but it tasted none the worse for that.

Cassie’s breathing caught. She snorted and opened her eyes. “Where—?” Confusion turned to comprehension as her gaze swept the glade, stopping at Tarian.

“Good morning,” said Tarian.

“Is it?” As if in answer, the sun finally rose, turning the sky the colour of honey. Cassie sat up, groaned, and pressed her fist into the small of her back. “I could have done with a firmer mattress.”

Tarian crossed to her side in two strides, knelt, and replaced Cassie’s fist with the flat of her hand. She invoked a healing spell and felt the answering tingle of warmth surge from her fingers into Cassie’s lower back.

“That feels wonderful.”

“You’re welcome.” Tarian sat back on her heels.

Cassie got to her feet and looked around. “No sign of the dogs? What the—?” She had been running her fingers through her hair. “How did these get here?” Her palm was full of petals.

“I can’t imagine.”

Cassie smiled. “Couldn’t resist turning me into some kind of woodland nymph, eh?” She patted Tarian’s cheek; it turned into a caress. In response, Tarian pulled her close and kissed her.

At last they parted, and Cassie regarded the now crushed petals. “I recognise the bluebells. But what were the pink-tinged white stars?”

“Wood anemones.”

“Nice. Do I get breakfast too?”

“Always thinking of your stomach.”

“If I don’t, who will?”

Tarian remembered the bar snacks she had seen on sale in the pub. They wouldn’t miss one. A minor spell later, a small packet lay in her hand. “Here.” She handed it over.

“Nuts and raisins. Thanks.”

Cassie was tearing her way hungrily into the packet when a series of barks, faint at first but becoming louder, made Tarian turn. She was just in time to witness Drysi and Anwar leaping through the shimmer between the alders.

“They’re back,” said Cassie, as the dogs, ears pricked and tails wagging, came to greet them.

Tarian fussed over them then crouched next to them and asked, “What did you discover?”

Drysi looked at her partner, as if to say, “Your turn,” and lay down, resting her chin on her extended front paws. Anwar locked gazes with Tarian, and a series of vivid images popped into her head.

Heathland dotted with gorse, heather, and whortleberry.

In the distance a herd of wild horses gallops, manes streaming. A herd of red deer turn their heads towards her (or rather Anwar), eyes wide with alarm. They stand like statues, ears pricked, bodies shivering, poised on the edge of flight. Then they relax, put a few yards more between themselves and the watcher, and resume their quiet grazing.

The view shifts. In the distance are thickly wooded slopes and on the summit of one hill stands a crumbling watchtower.

Tarian sucked in her breath. She had seen that watchtower before, she was sure of it. But where? And when? On one of her hunting expeditions?

“What is it?” Cassie rested a hand on Tarian’s shoulder.

“This entrance must lead to the outskirts of Faerie. Few Fae choose to live there anymore.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“If you mean that it’s as far from Mab’s domain as it’s possible to get and still be in Faerie, then yes.” Tarian turned back to the waiting Anwar. “Go on,” she ordered.

A rutted track winds past the ruined watchtower, down a steep hill, and past a water mill, where the miller is loading sacks of flour into a wagon. The track continues, past bustling hamlets and smallholdings, until a walled manor house comes into view.

“Any sign of the real James Farley?” asked Cassie.

“Not yet.”

The scene has changed. It’s evening, and she’s looking at a pigsty. Pigs and piglets jostle one another, struggling to get their snouts into the trough.

A huge sow with a black tail moves to one side. Tarian caught a glimpse of something that shouldn’t be there: a whip-thin, young man with hair the colour of carrots. With both hands the man reaches into the trough, crams swill into his mouth, and reaches for more.

The resemblance between man and changeling was instantly obvious. But where the changeling’s human features reflected the crudeness of the underlying doll, his features were softer. The gaunt frame, the scars from old injuries, the cuts and bruises from more recent ones, told a harsh story.

A revelation struck her. “Of course.” Tarian stopped the flow of images with a gesture and thanked Anwar with a pat. He grunted, sank down next to Drysi, and rested his head on his front paws.

“What?” prompted Cassie, impatient.

“It was his hair that caught their attention,” said Tarian. “No Fae has hair that colour.”

Cassie blinked at her in disbelief. “They abducted him simply because he had red hair?”

“Humans buy puppies for their looks.”

“But . . .” Cassie shook her head. “Never mind. Is he all right at least? Are the Fae doting on him as you said they might?”

Tarian grimaced.

Cassie’s hand flew to her mouth. “How bad is it?”

Should she tell Cassie he was eating with the pigs? “Bad.”

“We can’t leave him there.” Cassie’s tone was decisive. “He has to go back to his parents, where he belongs.”

Tarian’s heart sank. She had feared this might happen. “They may not even be alive, Cassie. And if they are, they won’t have known their son was missing. As far as they were concerned, the changeling was their son.”

“But he’s dead now.”

Tarian shook her head. “There was no body for a funeral.”

“We have to get the real James back,” repeated Cassie. Her jaw had taken on that mutinous jut it acquired whenever she was determined on something. Did she realise what she was asking? Probably not.

Tarian continued to fight a rearguard action, despising herself even as she did so. James’s life must be grim, but why must they be the ones to rescue him? “The shock of returning to your world could be more than he can handle.”

“It can’t be worse than leaving him where he is.” Cassie stared at Tarian as if seeing her for the first time. “Why are you creating obstacles? If it were me, you wouldn’t leave me there, would you?”

“That’s different.”

“No it isn’t.”

Boar droppings! Still. She had tried. “Very well. I’ll go and get him.”

She saw the moment when her meaning sank in. “You?” Cassie’s consternation was obvious. “But you can’t, Tarian. When I said we must get him back I didn’t mean that you personally—” Her eyes filled with panic. “Can’t the dogs—? No, of course they can’t. Oh hell.” She paused, then her face cleared. “Mab didn’t threaten me. If you were to tell the dogs to guide me—”

“I’d rather kill them.” Before Cassie could react, Tarian continued, “Besides, what good would it do? Do you really think the kidnappers are going to hand the real James Farley over to the first mortal that asks?”

“Perhaps that was a bit naïve,” conceded Cassie. She blinked. “I know. Send word to Einion. He’ll get James back if you ask him to.”

Tarian considered the suggestion, before giving her head a regretful shake. “Einion would do it for friendship’s sake, but he’s loyal to Mab. He’d feel bound to tell her what he was doing, and she’d thwart him just for the fun of it. No, I must go myself.”

“But Mab threatened to unmake you.” Cassie’s voice had become a wail, and Tarian wrapped comforting arms around her.

“Hush. I told you. This part of Faerie is a long way from Mab’s domain. Chances are I can get in, get James, and get out again before Mab even knows I was there.”

“Chances are?” Cassie gave her a bleak look.

“You said it yourself, we can’t leave him there.” I could, but you couldn’t, not with that tender mortal heart of yours.

“Me and my big mouth.” Cassie sagged against her. “I wish I’d never mentioned tracking him down in the first place.”

Tarian smiled. “Nevertheless. I must go. You know I must.”

The jut returned to Cassie’s jaw. “And I’m coming with you.”

“WHAT DO YOU mean, no trace?” Angor glared at his steward.

Two strange wolfhounds had been sighted hanging around the pigsty. A steward should be aware of everything that happened on his lord’s estate, but Puw had no knowledge of why the pigboy should be the object of such singular interest or the identity of the hounds’ owner. Not that he hadn’t tried to find out.

The pigboy touched his split lip and winced, knowing he had escaped lightly. But even the violence-fond Puw had realised that beating the pigboy to death couldn’t elicit information he didn’t have.

“My magic is but feeble,” said Puw, his manner ingratiating. “Perhaps if your lordship himself . . .” He trailed off.

“What’s the point in having a steward if I must do everything myself?” But the scowl disappeared, and Angor’s gaze turned inwards and his narrow lips moved. The pigboy recognised the signs of a spell in progress.

After a moment, Angor’s brows drew together. “Their trail does indeed run cold.” His tone was thoughtful. “As if the hounds had crossed over into the mortal realm. But who would send—?” His face cleared. “By oak, ash, and thorn! Could it be her?”

“My lord?” asked Puw, baffled.

“I know of only one Fae who could be behind this.” Angor’s eyes tracked to the pigboy. “But of what possible interest could this pathetic creature be to her? For an exile to risk so great a penalty . . .” He shuddered at something only he could see.

“My lord?” repeated the steward, looking even more adrift.

Angor waved a gloved hand in irritation. “Cold iron take it, but you’re slow on the uptake sometimes, Puw. Still, it matters little if you understand. I have the measure of her now. And should her hounds return, or she herself decide to pay us a visit, we shall be more than ready.”

Chapter 8

The strange prickling sensation faded as Cassie stepped through into light much softer than that she was used to.

“All right?” asked Tarian.

“Fine.”

Cassie let go of Tarian’s hand and surveyed her surroundings. The bluebell glade at the heart of Holly Hurst had vanished. She was standing in the middle of wild heathland, bounded on all sides by pine-forested slopes. On the top of one hill perched a ruined tower. This landscape might be more barren than the pastures around Mab’s palace, but it had its own beauty. Heather streaked it with shades of pink and purple, and gorse in full bloom added attractive splashes of yellow. In the distance hovered a skylark, its song exuberant. Then Anwar and Drysi arrived, their joyful barks disturbing a cloud of small brown butterflies.

A thought struck Cassie. “How on earth will we be able to find the crossing again?” There were no distinctive landmarks except that distant tower.

“You may not be able to see it but I can,” reminded Tarian.

“Oh.”

The climate was cooler than Cassie remembered, but still pleasantly warm. A light breeze brought with it the sweet smell of gorse. Last time it had been honeysuckle.

“We’re going to need mounts.” Tarian shaded her eyes and turned in a circle. “Ah.”

Cassie followed her gaze. Several hundred yards away a herd of wild horses was grazing. One of the stallions raised its head and looked at Tarian, and Cassie realised that she was working a spell. The stallion began to canter towards them, and a smaller horse—a mare?—set off after him. The drumming of hooves, faint at first, grew louder.

No saddles, no bridles. Cassie’s heart sank. “You don’t expect me to ride bareback, do you?”

Tarian gave her an amused look. “You’ll be quite safe.”

The stallion slowed, covered the remaining distance at a trot, and came to a halt in front of Tarian, pawing the ground with one hoof. It gave the wolfhounds a wary look before deciding to ignore them. Moments later, the mare joined it.

Tarian held out her hands, palm up, and let the horses nose them. “It will only be for a little while,” she told them. She urged Cassie towards the stallion.

“Shouldn’t I have the smaller horse?”

“I’m keeping that for James Farley.”

“So we’re both riding the stallion?”

“How else am I to keep you in the saddle?”

Relief flooded through Cassie, then Tarian boosted her onto the horse’s broad back and swung herself up behind her. Muscular thighs pressed against Cassie’s hips and strong arms held her around the waist.

“Still think you’re going to fall?” Tarian’s breath was a warm tickle against Cassie’s ear.

“Maybe not.” She relaxed, enjoying the press of Tarian’s breasts against her back.

Tarian sent the dogs bounding off ahead, tracking the scent they had followed last time. The stallion followed them, the mare trailing along a few yards behind. And even when they broke into a gallop, Cassie found herself too engrossed by Tarian’s nearness and by the way she was guiding their mount—she could feel every squeeze of her knees and kick of her heels—to be scared.

THE TRACK DOWN from the summit was sickeningly steep. Rather than look down to where the dogs were waiting, bored, Cassie scrunched her eyelids closed. “What was that place?” she asked, referring to the crumbling grey tower they had just passed—anything to keep her mind off what would happen if the stallion lost his footing.

“A watchtower.” Tarian leaned back to aid their mount’s balance, forcing Cassie to do the same. “No longer used.”

“What did it watch for?”

“Enemies.”

The stallion’s stumble jolted Cassie forward, and she opened her eyes in fright just as Tarian’s arms tightened around her waist.

“It’s all right. I won’t let us fall.”

Cassie’s heart was pounding in her chest. She clutched Tarian’s hands. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

With a whicker of annoyance, the stallion found its footing and continued its descent. Unencumbered by riders, the mare was having a much easier time of it.

It helped to distract Cassie from her terror if she concentrated on the view. A river snaked through the fertile plain stretching into the distance, and a patchwork of fields and hedges indicated it was under cultivation. She wondered if the water mill in the distance was their destination.

“So the Fae must have enemies.” She resumed their earlier conversation. “Who?”

“Other Fae,” said Tarian. “We’ve had our wars too, you know.”

“How long ago was the last one?”

“A thousand years, give or take a century.”

A thousand years without conflict? The idea was as staggering to Cassie as Tarian’s apparent indifference to centuries. Immortals must judge time differently. “Are things peaceful now?”

“Of course.” Tarian gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Once the realms of Faerie were brought under the sway of a single ruler, the need for conflict ceased.”

“Queen Mab is sole ruler?” Tarian grunted assent. “How long has she been queen?”

“Seventy years.”

Cassie contrasted that titbit of information with Mab’s youthful appearance. “How old is she?”

Tarian thought for a moment. “One hundred and eighty-six.”

Cassie gulped. “And how old are you?”

There was a pause before Tarian answered, and Cassie thought she detected a note of apprehension. “One hundred and fourteen.”

I did ask.

“Does that bother you?”

Cassie twisted around and saw that a crease had appeared between Tarian’s brows. “A little,” she said truthfully. “But I’ll get used to it.” On that she was determined. The crease disappeared. She smiled and faced front once more. “Who ruled before Mab?”

“Her father. And his mother before that.”

“What happened to them? I thought Fae were supposed to live forever.”

“There comes a time, even for immortals, when they grow weary of life,” said Tarian.

“Really? What happens then?” asked Cassie.

“We petition the current King or Queen for release, and if they look kindly on us, they grant that wish.”

Cassie chewed on that unsettling thought as the horse scrambled down the last few feet of incline. “By ‘release’ you mean they unmake you?”

“Yes.”

“But what if Mab herself grows weary? Can she unmake herself?”

“No. That is why one day she must create an heir. The power to unmake runs only in the direct royal bloodline.”

The implications were staggering. “Are you saying that Mab unmade her own father?”

“Her mother too. It is common for couples that love one another to petition for simultaneous release. My own parents made just such a petition, and I witnessed the granting of it.”

Tarian sounded unperturbed, but Cassie could not say she felt the same. To witness the death of your parents, and, in Mab’s case, to kill them yourself. My God! The Fae are made of stern stuff.

The horses reached the bottom at last, and Cassie let out a sigh of relief. The dogs rose and came to greet them, tails wagging. Tarian let the stallion and mare catch their breath and crop a juicy patch of grass, before urging them on once more.

“Where exactly are we going?” asked Cassie.

“The manor house.” Tarian adjusted her grip around Cassie’s waist.

They followed the track past the water mill and skirted the hamlet beyond it, where a Fae woman hanging washing on a line regarded them with a curious stare. They were seeing more and more Fae about. Cassie had only encountered nobles and livery-clad servants, and she was surprised to see Fae labouring in the fields and smallholdings, looking like peasants in their sweat-stained tunics and breeches.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why work so hard when you can do things by magic?”

“They’re lesser Fae,” said Tarian, as though that should be explanation enough.

Cassie worked it out. “They can’t cast spells?”

“Only weak ones, such as producing Fae light.”

That must put them at a disadvantage. “Do they own their own land?”

“Of course not. Those aren’t their houses either.” Tarian sounded surprised, and Cassie twisted round to see her face. “As tenants, they must pay their lord or lady for the cottage and the land that comes with it with their labour and loyalty.”

“But that’s Medieval,” said Cassie.

“It has always been this way,” said Tarian, indifferent. “Nobles rule; the lesser Fae serve them.”

“Why can’t nobles serve themselves?”

“Magic has its limits and its costs.” Blue eyes pinned her. “You’ve seen how a spell backwash affects me. The larger the spell, the worse the drain on its user. It would be foolish to use magic when the lesser Fae can achieve the same end by mundane means. Besides,” Tarian went on, “it would be taking the bread from their mouths. Without employment, they would starve.”

“I doubt that,” muttered Cassie.

Tarian arched an eyebrow. “It’s not all one way. If a servant falls ill, it’s the duty of his lord or lady to cast a healing spell.”

How generous. But it was obvious they weren’t going to agree on the merits or otherwise of serfdom, so Cassie let the matter drop. “How far is this manor house?” she asked.

“Not far now, according to the dogs.”

They rode on in silence, Cassie’s eyes roaming while her mind wondered what awaited them. Tarian had said James Farley’s circumstances were bad. Being mortal must put him at the bottom in the pecking order. In light of their discussion about how lesser Fae lived, what did that mean?

A walled estate came into view, and Cassie’s eye was drawn to the large, stone manor house within. To its side and rear lay a complex of barns and outbuildings, and she could see a horse being led to what must be the stables.

Tarian turned in at the front gate. A servant scything the long grass in front of the house stopped work and stared at them.

“Aren’t we going to sneak round the back?” asked Cassie. She hadn’t expected a frontal attack.

“Best not to sneak up on Fae,” said Tarian. “They know you’re there, and it tends to antagonise them.”

She halted the stallion by an arched stone porch, slid off, and reached up to help Cassie down. Cassie groaned with relief as she massaged the ache from her backside. The servant dropped his scythe and hurried towards them, but Tarian waved him away. With a shrug he returned to his work.

While Tarian told the dogs to wait on the porch and stay alert, the horses wandered over to a pile of freshly cut grass and began to graze.

“So what are we going to do?” asked Cassie. “Ask the kidnappers to give James back? I thought you said that wouldn’t work.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow at her tone, but said merely, “I intend to bargain.”

“With what?”

“You’ll see.”

While the dogs made themselves comfortable on the benches that lined both sides of the porch, Tarian crossed to the small door within the larger one. Before she could lift the knocker, the door opened, revealing a livery-clad Fae with a drooping black moustache.

The bunch of keys hanging from his belt jingled as he bowed then straightened and stepped back. “Enter. I am Puw, steward here. My master is expecting you.”

Expecting? Cassie felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, and Tarian’s face was suddenly still. They exchanged a glance and followed him inside.

A blast of heat struck her cheeks. It was coming from a huge oven. They were in a kitchen, she saw. At one table, two red-faced women were scraping and chopping vegetables while a third made pastry. At another, a sweating man with massive shoulders was jointing a side of venison with a cleaver.

The steward threw Cassie an impatient glance over his shoulder, and she hurried to catch up. A wooden screen separated the kitchen from the next room, which proved to be a large hall with a high-timbered ceiling. Though the hall was draughty, a haze of blue smoke hung in the air, its source the huge central hearth.

He led them past servants, trestle tables, and hearth towards a raised dais at the far end. On it were placed two ornately carved chairs, and in them sat the lord and lady of the manor, watching their progress with hooded eyes. At their feet lounged a pair of wolfhounds.

Tarian sighed.

“Do you know them?” whispered Cassie. A magnificent ankle-length gown—red silk, bound with a golden girdle—showed the woman’s figure to good effect. The man was thickly bearded; his black tunic and breeches highlighted the gold torque around his neck.

“Angor and Ysbail,” said Tarian. “They’re distantly related to the royal bloodline. If they hadn’t fallen from favour, they wouldn’t be living in the back of beyond.”

“What did they do?”

“Had ambitions above their station. Mab’s father had to slap them down.”

They halted in front of the seated pair. The woman was beautiful in a rather blowsy way. Her dark eyes were watchful, her full lips pressed together in what Cassie took to be disapproval. The steward bowed and backed away.

“Tarian.” The seated man looked down his hawk nose at her. “What a pleasant surprise.” It was obvious he thought the opposite. “Welcome.”

Tarian bowed her head. “Angor.” She inclined her head to his companion. “Ysbail. Well met.” She gestured. “May I introduce my companion? Cassie Lewis.”

Cassie wasn’t sure whether to curtsey or bow so she restricted herself to a nod and a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

Angor didn’t return her greeting. “You keep company with mortals?”

“I do,” said Tarian. “And she is under my protection.”

After a moment he shrugged. “Very well.”

Tarian made a show of looking around for somewhere to sit. “Are guests not permitted to conduct their business with you in comfort?”

Ysbail flushed at the implied slight and beckoned a servant over. Moments later two more chairs had been brought.

Tarian sat and waited until Cassie had done the same, before saying, in a conversational tone, “You were expecting us, I gather.”

Angor gestured at the wolfhounds lying at his feet. “Did you think my dogs would be unaware of yours?”

“It was a risk,” agreed Tarian, provoking a pang of guilt in Cassie.

A risk I made you run.

“Now here you are in person.” He drew himself up in his chair. “You mentioned business dealings. Well?”

Tarian nodded and pulled out the changeling doll. “Yours, I believe.”

Chapter 9

It was just as well she had put a protection spell on the doll, thought Tarian, as Ysbail cast a surreptitious spell. When the crude wooden artefact remained intact, a flash of unease crossed Ysbail’s face, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Angor threw his wife a warning glance before turning back to Tarian. “You’re mistaken. That vile thing has nothing to do with us.”

“Why then did your wife just try to destroy it?”

For a moment he was at a loss, but he recovered quickly. “You know as well as I that our present Queen outlawed such things. My wife was but abiding by the law.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow. “I thought you might plead ignorance, living on the outskirts of Faerie as you do. You knew of Mab’s decree, yet you created and used a changeling?”

With a show of indignation, he rose to his feet. “Who says so? Point him out and I’ll rip out his lying tongue.” He paused. “Or is it you who slanders me?”

Cassie shifted in her chair, and Tarian threw her a reassuring glance. Angor’s bluster didn’t scare her.

“Perhaps you are unaware, my lord, that when a changeling doll is created, a bond links it to its maker.” She cocked her head. “Or perhaps you knew but thought that the trail would fade with time. It didn’t. And it led me to you.”

Was that panic in his eyes?

“So you say. But of what value is the word of an exile? Oh yes.” He scanned the watching faces of his retainers and servants, who had edged closer, eager to hear what was going on. “We may be on the outskirts, but we still hear tidings. Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk, the Queen’s former champion, was exiled and ordered never to return,” his gaze returned to her face, “on pain of her unmaking.”

The resulting silence was so intent Tarian could almost hear Cassie’s heart beating.

“Mab knows you’re here,” he went on, his smile full of malice. “I sent word.”

Cassie sucked in her breath.

“I see.” Tarian kept her voice steady.

A hand slipped itself into hers. “We must leave,” said Cassie urgently.

“Not yet.”

“But if the Queen comes—”

“Hush.” Gently, Tarian extracted her fingers from Cassie’s. “You sent word to the Queen, my lord?” She shook her head in mock pity. “Rash. Very rash.”

His smile disappeared.

“Never mind what may happen to me. What do you think Mab will do to you and your wife when she learns you broke her edict about changelings?”

“Husband!” Ysbail looked frightened. He shook his head at her, and she fell silent.

“I propose an exchange. This,” Tarian held up the changeling doll, “for the red-haired babe.”

“What babe?”

“Don’t play games, Angor. He’s a man now, that’s true. But he was a babe when you took him from his crib.”

Angor shifted in his seat. “Suppose we had done such a thing?” There was uncertainty in his eyes now. Good. “What concern is it of yours?”

Tarian gave him a smile. “Beyond the natural concern of any good and loyal subject, you mean?”

His lip curled but he nodded.

She let her mask of good humour drop. “Don’t try my patience, Angor. We both know the man is here. Bring him to me. Now.”

He pointed at the doll. “Will you remove the protection spell?”

She nodded.

For a moment more he hesitated, then he beckoned the waiting steward. After a brief conversation, the steward bowed and hurried away.

“I have sent for the pigboy,” said Angor, smoothing his robes.

“Pigboy?” muttered Cassie, indignant. “His name is James.”

“Good,” said Tarian.

A RIPPLE OF laughter and crude comments marked the arrival of the red-haired young man Tarian had last seen eating pig swill. It followed his progress across the hall towards the dais, as did the ripe smell of pigs.

Angor and Ysbail pressed perfumed silk kerchiefs to their noses as his escort, a Fae in a farrier’s apron, jerked him to a halt in front of them and swiped his legs out from under him. “Show some respect for your betters.” The thud of knees on the hard floor made Tarian wince. “The pigboy as requested, my lord,” said the farrier with a bow.

The real James Farley bowed his head and hunched his shoulders. Tremors shook his frame. He was clearly terrified. Cassie made a choking sound in her throat, and Tarian could see that she was distressed on his behalf.

“Well?” Angor gestured towards the doll in Tarian’s hand.

“A moment. I must remove the protection.” She didn’t tell him that she was transferring it to James.

When she had finished, she handed Angor the doll. Seconds later it was a pile of ash. With a grim smile he brushed a stray white flake off his tunic and directed a servant to sweep up the mess.

“Is James ours now?” asked Cassie.

“Yes,” said Tarian.

At that Cassie rose and crouched beside the kneeling man. In spite of the stench and grime, she put her arm round his shoulders and said, “You’re safe now.” From his amazed expression, he had never seen another mortal before. “We’re taking you home,” continued Cassie, smiling encouragement. He turned a baffled glance in Angor’s direction.

“Will you tell him he doesn’t belong to you anymore or shall I?” asked Tarian, annoyed at Angor’s silence. He shrugged.

She stood up and squared her shoulders. “Pigboy.” Her commanding tone hooked James’s wide-eyed attention at once. “Your master has sold you, and now you are mine.” She glanced at Angor. “Is that not so, my lord?”

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he gave her an ironic smile and inclined his head. “It is so.”

“From now on you will answer to the name James Farley.” James mouthed the name. “Come with me, James.” Tarian beckoned. “Now.”

Her tone brooked no disobedience, and he scrambled to his feet and hurried to her side. Cassie followed.

“Are we leaving now?” she asked Tarian in a low murmur.

“As fast as we can.”

“Good.” Cassie gave the watching Fae a resentful glance. “They’re getting off too easily. Can’t you hide an ill luck attractor somewhere? If anyone deserves a plague of flies, this lot do.”

Tarian stifled a smile. “They’d only destroy it.”

“But they should be punished for what they’ve done.”

“They will be. But not by me.”

Cassie looked a question, but Tarian shook her head. Now was not the time. She gave Angor a half bow. “My business here is concluded, my lord, so I will take my leave of you.” She glanced at Ysbail. “And of you, my lady.”

Ysbail’s dark eyes were malevolent. “I do not think we shall meet again,” she said. “You have left it too late.”

Tarian kept her expression neutral. “You may well be right.”

She turned on her heel and strode towards the exit. And after a moment, Cassie and James followed her.

“WHAT DID SHE mean, ‘left it too late’?” asked Cassie, as Tarian helped her up onto the stallion’s back. “Please tell me she wasn’t talking about Mab.”

“I fear she was.”

The lack of a saddle and reins didn’t daunt James, and he was eager to mount the mare. Anwar and Drysi hadn’t scared him either—he had smiled and petted them. Yet whenever Tarian addressed him he trembled like a leaf. It made a kind of sense, she supposed. Unlike my kind, beasts treat him kindly.

She mounted up behind Cassie, settled her arms around Cassie’s waist, and urged the stallion forward.

Cassie clutched Tarian’s wrist. “I thought you said this place was miles from Mab’s domain.” She sounded tense.

“The Queen is the most powerful of us all,” reminded Tarian. “She can travel hundreds of leagues in seconds.”

Cassie’s grip tightened until it was almost painful. “What are we going to do?”

“Return to the crossing.”

Tarian checked on James’s progress. His expression was dreamy, his lips curved in a half smile. Satisfied, she faced front one more and kneed the stallion into a canter.

THEY WERE GALLOPING past the ruined watchtower when the air above the track ahead began to shimmer. Cassie gasped as an archway appeared out of nowhere. For a moment it remained empty, then through it came four riders.

The first was unknown to Tarian: a herald wearing the livery of Queen Mab and carrying the Queen’s narrow white pennant. After him came three much more familiar figures. Einion was wearing a russet-coloured tunic and breeches, over which he had thrown a cloak of forest green. Cadel’s silver armour was dazzling in the sunlight—purely for show, of course. And bringing up the rear on a magnificent charger was the Queen herself, dressed in a gown of midnight blue with a silver girdle.

Einion’s gaze softened when he saw Tarian, and he gave her a brief, sad smile. The look Cadel threw her was not so friendly, but then, during their last encounter, she had smashed his head to a pulp. As for Mab . . . The Queen’s eyes were unreadable as they met Tarian’s.

Cassie moaned low in her throat.

Tarian instructed the stallion to halt and called the dogs to heel.

“What are you doing?” hissed Cassie, twisting to look at her.

“We cannot escape her. It will only anger her further to try.”

“But—”

“Hush,” said Tarian. “She would use you against me. I won’t risk that.” Her resolve hardened. “Leave Mab to me. And try not to draw attention to yourself.” Whatever happens, I will make sure you and James get back to your own world safely.

She slid off the stallion’s back and turned to help Cassie down. The mare halted too, pawing the ground while her rider sat transfixed by the sight of the proud and beautiful Queen.

“Get down,” Tarian told him. Trembling, James obeyed.

She called the two horses to her and whispered words of release. They startled and tossed their heads as they came back to themselves, and stood, the whites of their eyes showing, taking in their surroundings.

“There, there.” She stroked a quivering flank. “I no longer have need of your services. Accept my grateful thanks and go.”

For a moment longer they stood, eying the dogs, though Anwar and Drysi had sunk to their haunches at Tarian’s command and were no threat. Then, with an exchange of whinnies, they galloped off down the hill, manes streaming out behind them. She extended her senses after them, smiling at the exuberance and exhilaration that flowed back to her.

A distant shimmer on the heathland below caught Tarian’s eye, and her smile faded. So near and yet so far. With a sigh, she turned to face the Queen.

Chapter 10

Dismayed, Cassie watched Tarian drop to one knee in front of the Queen’s horse. Why isn’t she running? Or putting up a fight?

Mab’s expression as she gazed down at Tarian’s bowed head was unreadable. Cassie bit her lip. Would she be open to persuasion to give Tarian a second—or was it third?—chance?

Who am I kidding? This is Mab we’re talking about, and Tarian disobeyed her explicit instructions. Cassie swallowed, her mouth dry. I can’t lose her. She’s meant to outlive me, not the other way around.

At Mab’s signal, the herald dismounted and knelt on all fours. She used his back as a dismounting block, straightened her gown, and stalked over to Tarian. Cadel and Einion dismounted too. Cadel looked down his nose at Cassie and made a point of ignoring her, but Einion threw her a look of apology.

“A seat, Einion,” commanded the Queen.

With a bow and a gesture, he materialised a plush red chair at her elbow. She smiled at him and made herself comfortable on it. And all the while Tarian knelt in front of her, not moving a muscle.

“I’m glad to see your manners haven’t deserted you, Tarian,” said Mab at last.

“Indeed, your majesty.” Tarian kept her head bowed.

“I was surprised to hear of your return.”

No one would have guessed from the conversational tone that Mab was discussing a matter of life and death. Tarian’s death. Cassie had never witnessed an unmaking, but Tarian had told her what was involved. What had she said? That the body collapsed in on itself? A shiver ran down Cassie’s spine, and she felt sick.

“Look at me,” ordered Mab.

Tarian raised her head, and the two Fae locked gazes. Cassie wondered if they were remembering how things had once been between them. A pang of jealousy shot through her before she remembered that Mab had wiped all that from her memory. Would that act of forgetting help or hinder Tarian?

“At our last meeting, did I not make it clear what would happen to you if you were to return?”

“You did, your majesty,” said Tarian.

“Yet here you are.” Mab’s voice had gone hard.

Cassie’s palms felt clammy. Don’t just kneel there. Tell her it was my fault. But Tarian remained silent.

“Be merciful, I beg you,” blurted Cassie. All eyes swivelled to regard her, and she remembered Tarian’s instruction not to draw attention to herself. Oh well! She fought not to hunch her shoulders. In for a penny. “She only came back because of me, your majesty.”

“And who said you may speak?” Mab’s tone could have curdled fresh milk.

Cassie gave a nervous curtsey. “I apologise, your majesty, if I am breaking court protocol or something. But if Tarian won’t speak up for herself, I must.” She ignored Tarian’s warning glance. “She was reluctant to come back, but I persuaded her.”

“You?” barked the Queen, eyebrows raised. “I remember you, mortal.” She paused. “Are you always so careless of your champion’s welfare?”

Her remark bit Cassie to the bone, and she flushed. “It appears so, your majesty.”

Silence followed her pained admission, then Mab said, “What could you possibly have said or done that made Tarian agree to risk her life?” She sounded genuinely curious.

Cassie took a breath before answering. “I told her about the changeling.”

“Changeling?” Mab’s face darkened. She gestured at James, who until now had seemed beneath her notice. He went rigid, his eyes rolling in panic. What is she doing to him? wondered Cassie. After a moment James staggered and blinked at his surroundings with a look of dazed relief.

“You told the truth, it appears,” said Mab.

Cassie nodded. But Mab was no longer addressing her.

“He was stolen from his parents,” said Tarian. “A doll left in his place.”

“I saw the abductors’ faces in his mind.” Mab frowned. “Angor and Ysbail seem bent on causing me as much trouble as they did my father.”

“They’ve mistreated him for years,” interjected Cassie. “You only have to look at him.” She trailed off as Mab’s eyes pinned her. “We were only doing what’s right, your majesty. How can it be fair to penalise Tarian for that?”

Mab’s gaze lingered on her before returning to Tarian. “Do you agree?” she asked softly. “Should rescuing this mortal exempt you from punishment?”

Tarian replied just as softly, “No, your majesty.”

Her words made Cassie gasp. What was Tarian playing at? Mab’s reply gave Cassie her answer.

“A wise decision.” Mab gazed at the ruined watchtower, her expression distant. “For you know as well as I that a Queen’s authority rests on the obedience of her subjects. And those who flout it must be punished.” She came back to herself, and her voice hardened. “As must those who created a changeling against my express orders.”

For a moment Cassie pitied Angor and Ysbail, but only for a moment. An idea had come to her. “Your majesty,” she said, before she could think twice.

Mab turned an irritated glance her way. “How Tarian puts up with your babbling is beyond me. You are worse than a whining pup. What is it now?”

“This is my fault, your majesty.” Cassie tried to slow her racing pulse. I know you wanted me to stay out of this, love, but how can I? “I should pay the price, not Tarian.”

“You?” Mab’s exclamation drowned out Tarian’s protest. “Do you wish me to unmake you instead?”

“No!” yelped Cassie, before continuing in a more measured tone. “I have no wish to die before my time. But I could be your servant. Your lady in waiting, perhaps.”

Mab arched an eyebrow. “And never see your beloved Tarian again?”

Cassie hadn’t considered that. But if you unmake her I’ll lose her anyway. “If it will save Tarian’s life, then yes, your majesty.” She refused to meet Tarian’s eyes. This is hard enough as it is.

“I confess, I have no great desire to unmake my former champion,” said Mab. “But someone must be punished.” She pursed her lips and gave a small nod. “Very w—”

“I won’t allow such a sacrifice.” Tarian’s words drowned out the Queen’s.

“Won’t allow?” Mab’s back straightened, and her eyes gleamed. For a moment Cassie feared it was with fury, but Mab’s next words disabused her. “I was wondering where that spirit of yours had gone.” Her lips twitched with what looked like amusement.

Tarian got stiffly to her feet. Her glance flicked between Cassie and Mab. “Pardon my presumption, your majesty. May I offer a compromise?”

A sense of foreboding stole over Cassie.

Mab inclined her head. “I’m listening.”

“Take my immortality from me.”

Cassie’s gasp joined that of all the riders. From Cadel’s expression, even he considered this fate worse than being unmade.

“Your immortality,” repeated the Queen, startled. “You would forfeit that for a mortal?”

Tarian squared her shoulders. “I would, your majesty.” She smiled at Cassie. “But only for this particular mortal.”

Tears pricked Cassie’s eyes, and she bunched her hands into fists. I can’t let you do this! But what choice did she have?

“What you suggest is possible,” mused Mab, her gaze turning inwards, “but seldom done. I believe the last occasion was five centuries ago, during King Kynan’s reign. His great friend, Talyessin, betrayed him and should have been banished for it. But even after such treachery, Kynan could not bear to be forever parted from his friend.” She looked at Tarian. “It is written that later he regretted his decision.”

Tarian remained silent. Mab began to pace.

“To remove immortality requires a great working, a spell that only those of royal blood have the delicacy and power to cast.” She halted in front of Tarian, brows knitting. “Are you sure you desire this? I deem it a fitting punishment given the severity of your crime, but once done it cannot be undone.”

Tarian hesitated for only a moment. “I’m sure.”

“Very well.”

Straightening to her full height, Mab adopted a more formal tone and demeanour. “Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk, for breaking your exile, I sentence you to lose your immortality.” She gestured at Cassie. “Join your companion while I prepare.”

TARIAN STRODE ACROSS the heath in silence, aware of Cassie’s concerned gaze. It had taken all her fortitude to remain unresisting while the pale green light of the Queen’s spell enveloped her. Considering its magnitude, the working hadn’t taken long, but by its completion she had given in to the urge to close her eyes, if only to block out the sight of Cassie’s distress. A hand had cupped her chin and lifted it. She opened her eyes to find Mab regarding her from close quarters, on her face an emotion Tarian had thought foreign to the Queen: pity.

“From this day forth, Tarian, you will age as mortals do.” Mab straightened and stepped back, as though distancing herself physically and mentally. Her expression changed, became cool and self-contained. “And as I have no wish to witness such an abomination, swear to me, upon your family’s honour, that you will never return.”

So Tarian had. She shivered, remembering. Never had the word “never” seemed so final.

A cold nose pushed itself into her palm, and she glanced down and saw Drysi regarding her with anxious eyes.

“I’m all right,” Tarian told her.

But she was far from certain. Mab’s mention of Talyessin had made her uneasy. He had been a notable worker of magic, who loved nothing more than to amaze and have his deeds recorded for posterity. After his immortality was stripped from him, however, there was no further mention of magic in the annals concerning him.

When you lose your immortality, do you lose your magic too? Tarian grimaced. Rather late to think of that now.

These past few weeks she’d been happier, more content, than she could remember. Perhaps that was why, just recently, she had been thinking of something Einion said. “Mortals live but mayfly lives,” he had warned her. “Could you watch one grow old and die?”

The prospect of life without Cassie might have weighed heavily on Tarian if she’d let it, so she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. Relinquishing her immortality had seemed an answer of sorts—not much of a sacrifice at all. But if I’ve also lost my magic . . .

An image of Tarian kissing Cassie in the sitting room while Anwar looked on with approval popped into Tarian’s head—Anwar’s attempt at comfort. The link between mistress and dogs was as strong as ever.

“I have that, at least.” She patted Anwar’s head.

“Have what?” Cassie had caught Tarian’s mutter.

“Later,” said Tarian. “Let’s cross first.”

“You’re not still mad at me for offering to be her lady in waiting, are you?”

In truth, Cassie’s spur of the moment offer had horrified Tarian. She wouldn’t have put it past Mab to take Cassie up on it, just to enjoy seeing Tarian squirm. But she sighed and said, “No. I’m not still mad at you.”

Sunlight flashed off something in front of the watchtower on the hill. Tarian shaded her eyes. Armour. That group of figures must be Mab and the others, watching.

“Mab wouldn’t change her mind, would she?” asked Cassie, following her gaze.

“No.” Best not to chance it, though. Tarian increased her pace.

“Keep up, James,” called Cassie.

His energy reserves were meagre, and already his breathing was ragged, and he had pressed a fist into his side. In spite of her sense of urgency, Tarian took pity on him and slowed.

“I think I can feel it,” said Cassie, as they closed the distance to the shimmering boundary. From James’s puzzlement, he could feel it too.

Tarian reached for Cassie’s hand. “Grab hold of James. After all this, we don’t want him getting left behind.”

Cassie nodded. She beckoned, and when he was within reach gripped his hand.

Tarian pointed, and with a joyful woof the dogs bounded ahead. One moment they were there, the next they weren’t. James’s eyes widened, and he let out a whimper.

“Hush,” Cassie told him. “They’re all right. You’ll see them again in a moment.” She looked at Tarian. “Shall we?”

“Wait.” Tarian wanted to commit to memory as many of the sights, sounds, and smells of Faerie as she could: the wild heath with its splashes of yellow and purple; the clouds of butterflies and trilling song of the skylarks; the wild horses racing, the drumming of their hooves both heard and felt; and the red deer grazing in the distance. At last, the pine-covered slopes drew Tarian’s gaze towards the skyline, back to the crumbling watchtower and the figures standing in front of it.

She took in a last deep draught of the sweet-scented air, then smiled at Cassie and tightened her grip. “Now.”

Chapter 11

The glade was as they had left it, down to the scattering of blue and white petals. Tarian ignored the dogs cocking their legs against a tree and glanced up at the sky.

“Late afternoon.” She released Cassie’s hand.

Cassie turned to calm James. “It’s all right. You’re safe now. This is where you belong. This is Sutton Park.” She threw Tarian a wry glance. “Not that that will mean anything to him.”

“Where I belong,” he murmured, looking at his surroundings with new eyes.

The dogs bounded to Tarian’s side and nosed her for attention. She crouched and stroked their brindled coats, smoothed their sleek muzzles. She felt wrung out. Is this what being mortal feels like?

“We’re going to take you back to your parents,” said Cassie to James.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” said Tarian.

An arm draped itself around her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

For a moment Tarian wondered whether to lie. But only for a moment. “I don’t know.”

James sat cross-legged on what had been their bedding and began to plait stalks of dry grass together.

“Do you feel,” Cassie paused, “different?”

“Tired, maybe.”

“That could just be stress.” Cassie played with a strand of Tarian’s hair. “At least you didn’t do a ‘She’ on us.” The corners of her eyes crinkled.

“What?”

“Get all wrinkled and crumble to dust. Rider Haggard? Never mind. Feeble attempt at humour. Sorry.”

They regarded one another in silence.

“Something’s scaring you half to death,” said Cassie. “What is it?”

Tarian was reluctant to put her fears into words. But Cassie held her gaze, her expression patient. “Mab’s spell may have stripped me of more than my immortality,” she said at last.

“What do you mean?”

“My Fae magic. I may no longer have it.”

Cassie frowned. “Is that a known side effect?”

Tarian straightened up, and Cassie did too. “Who knows? The archives contain hardly any mention of Fae who’ve had their immortality removed.”

Cassie gave her a considering look. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? Have you tried talking to the dogs?”

Tarian nodded.

“And?”

“I still can.”

Cassie looked relieved. “Isn’t that magic?”

“I’m not sure,” said Tarian. “The dogs are from Faerie too.”

The compassion in Cassie’s eyes almost made Tarian want to weep. Snap out of it, she ordered herself.

“You know what you have to do,” said Cassie.

“Yes,” said Tarian grudgingly. “Try casting a spell.” But what if it doesn’t work?

Cassie nodded. “Start with something small. What about something even the Lesser Fae can do?”

Tarian exhaled. Cassie was right. She could manage Fae light, couldn’t she? “All right.”

But she couldn’t remember the spell or the glyph that went with it. Has Mab wiped it from my memory? She began to panic.

A squeeze of Cassie’s hand brought her back to her surroundings. “You’re hyperventilating,” said Cassie matter-of-factly. “Take a few deep breaths and calm down.”

With a sheepish look, Tarian did as she was told.

“And don’t think so hard. This is something you’ve known how to do since you were a child, isn’t it? Something that should be second nature to you. Like riding a bicycle.”

“Fae don’t ride bicycles.”

“You know what I mean.”

This time Tarian didn’t think, and as if they had a will of their own, she found her lips moving and her fingers tracing the design that had surfaced in her mind. In the middle of the glade, a small globe of pale blue light popped into existence, eliciting an exclamation from Cassie. James gave it a bored look and went back to his plaiting.

Tarian’s knees gave way, and she sat down hard in the middle of the glade. Anwar and Drysi licked her face, and for once she let them. She felt relieved beyond measure. Cassie flopped down next to her, pushed away the dogs, and gave her a hug. Tarian returned it.

“I should have known,” she said.

“Known what?” asked Cassie, relaxing against her.

“That Mab was too skilled to strip me of my magic by accident.”

“She could have done it deliberately. I wouldn’t have put it past her.”

“You forget, we were friends once. More than friends.”

“And you forget. She’s exiled you twice. That woman is one unstable bitch.”

Cassie’s vehemence startled Tarian into a grin. She waved the Fae light out of existence and glanced to where James was sitting. Belatedly she took in his battered appearance. With a gesture she dispelled the stench of pigs, then she invoked a healing spell. His bruises and cuts disappeared and his cheeks gained more colour—at the bone deep level, old hurts and fractures would be healing too. Seeing the spell work, Tarian let out a satisfied grunt.

James looked up, his expression a mixture of relief and confusion. He seemed aware that something had changed but unable to identify what it was. After a moment, he resumed his plaiting.

“That was kind,” said Cassie. “Angor could have done that, but I suppose he couldn’t be bothered.”

Tarian waited for the throbbing headache to ease. “I could erase his memories of Faerie too. But it seems a bad idea to take away what little memory he has. What do you think?”

Cassie’s expression reflected the pros and cons as they occurred to her. “You’re probably right.”

To Tarian’s relief, her own exhaustion seemed to be receding. Perhaps it had been, as Cassie said, stress. And fear. For a while longer they held one another, then with an exchange of smiles, they helped each other up and brushed off the dirt and bits of clinging leaf mould.

“So you still have your magic,” said Cassie, as they left the glade with James trailing after them. “If you can heal yourself, isn’t that as good as being immortal?”

“I can keep myself healthy,” said Tarian, calling up a protection spell for the three of them before ploughing through the middle of a holly thicket. “But I can’t keep ageing at bay.” She put an arm round Cassie’s shoulders. “I’m going to grow old alongside you, love. Whether you like it or not.” The thought brought satisfaction tinged with apprehension, but she pushed the latter aside. What’s done is done.

“And I was looking forward to people wondering why a gorgeous young thing like you was hanging out with a withered old bat like me.” Cassie cocked her head. “A grey streak like Susan Sontag’s would look gorgeous on you.”

“Like who?” Tarian glanced back to make sure James was keeping up.

“I keep forgetting that cultural references fly straight past you.” Cassie frowned. “It’s going to be worse for James. He didn’t even know his own name. You warned me our world might be too much of a shock, and you were right. There’s no way he’s going to be able to cope.”

Tarian shrugged. “Mortals are stronger than you think. He’ll be all right, Cassie. He just needs to be retaught everything, like a child.”

At her words Cassie became thoughtful. “I saw this program on TV a few months ago. About a man who couldn’t remember the last thirty-seven years of his life. He’d been in what they call a fugue. He had to start from scratch.”

Tarian caught Cassie’s drift at once. “So we could tell people that James is suffering from the same thing?”

Cassie nodded. “Let’s drop him off at the Good Hope.”

“Is that a hospital?”

“Yes. We’ll take him to A & E, tell them we found him wandering in Sutton Park, and it looks like he’s lost his memory.”

“Will they take care of him?”

“I think so. They’ll get the police involved, work out who he is, trace his family and friends.”

“If the changeling version of James had any,” warned Tarian. “In all probability he was so hateful he alienated everyone close to him.”

“The real James will be different,” said Cassie. “They’ll be able to put his personality change down to the fugue.”

Up ahead the trees were thinning. They had almost reached the edge of Holly Hurst.

Cassie chewed her lip. “He needs some kind of ID, though, to get the ball rolling and make sure he’s not stuck in hospital longer than necessary.”

Tarian vaulted the two-barred fence. While she waited for Cassie to squeeze between the bars, she cast a suitable spell. The changeling’s credit card from the office desk in the doll hospital appeared between her finger and thumb. When Cassie straightened up, she held it out. “Will this do?”

Cassie took the card from her. “Lost your magic,” she scoffed. “It’s perfect.”

Tarian smiled.

“Even so it’s going to be tough for him,” said Cassie as James came towards them, smiling at Cassie but giving Tarian a fearful glance. “Catching up on everything he’s missed. I wonder if he’ll ever feel at home in this world.”

“I do, and I’ve only been here a couple of years.”

“You’re different.”

Tarian nodded. “I have you to help me. James will be fortunate if he finds himself a Cassie.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But her words brought a blush of pleasure to Cassie’s cheeks.

They joined hands and set off back to the car park, James a few yards behind. When they were almost there, Tarian gestured, and Cassie’s car reappeared, drawing a gasp from the red-haired man.

“Show off,” said Cassie.

With a grin, Tarian directed the dogs towards the back seat. James would have to share it with them as far as the hospital.

“Whatever happens, he’ll be better off here than he would have been with Angor and Ysbail,” said Cassie, opening the driver’s door. “And that’s a start, isn’t it?”

Tarian nodded. “It’s a start.”

Chapter 12

“Tarian was right about the flies,” came Louise’s voice down the phone. “Whatever Pest Control did that last time did the trick.”

“It’s just as well,” said Cassie. “Murphy would have gone mental.”

She glanced across the room to where Tarian was wrestling the last of the bulging suitcases closed, the dogs hindering her progress rather than helping. It was strange seeing the flat so tidy and bare. Hard to imagine she had lived here for three years.

“Oh I don’t know,” said Louise. “He might have acquired a taste for bluebottles.”

“Are we talking about the same cat? Lazy, selfish, so picky he’d rather starve than eat cheap cat food?”

“You told me he’d eat anything.”

“Oops!”

Louise laughed. “He’s settled in really well. Sam adores him.”

“Thank heavens for that. I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d had to bring Murphy back.”

“Sam’s annoyed, by the way, that he missed meeting Tarian. Especially after I told him what she looks like.”

“Men! There’ll be other occasions, Lou. Mum and Dad insist we come back and visit often, though what he and Tarian are going to find to talk about I have no idea, as Tarian has no interest whatsoever in cars.”

Tarian hauled the now shut suitcase over to the door and placed it with the others waiting to be taken down. She straightened and pressed her fists into the small of her back, invoking what Cassie recognised as a healing spell. Getting the packing cases ready for the removal men had taken its toll on both of them. And there was still the drive ahead.

“You could always come for a weekend,” she told Louise.

“To Bourn’s Edge?”

Her friend’s incredulity made Cassie roll her eyes. “Hey! It’s not Timbuktu. It’s nice. Peaceful. With beautiful views.”

“Boring, in other words.”

“I’m sure we can find something to keep you and Sam occupied.”

“Do you have cable or satellite?”

“Not yet,” admitted Cassie.

“Broadband?”

“No, but I’m looking into—”

“I rest my case,” said Louise.

Cassie laughed. “Well, if you should change your mind.” She glanced to where Tarian was leaning against the wall, arms folded. “I’d better go, Lou. We were supposed to be on our way half an hour ago. Give my love to Murphy, won’t you?”

“Okay. Safe journey, Cass. Bye.”

“Bye.” Cassie replaced the receiver then unplugged the phone from its socket.

“All done?” asked Tarian.

She nodded, her gaze skimming over the stained table on which her computer had sat, the rickety cupboard now empty of her DVD collection, the shelves bereft of her well-worn paperbacks, and the unfaded rectangles of wallpaper where her paintings had hung.

“I expect you’ll miss this place,” said Tarian, following her gaze.

Was Tarian feeling guilty about whisking her away to Bourn’s Edge? If so she had no need to.

“Not really.” Cassie went to Tarian’s side and pulled her arms around her. Tarian rested her chin on the crown of Cassie’s head. “I didn’t have much of a life before I met you. This was never home, just the place I slept.”

“Oh.”

Cassie looked up at her. “It’s my friends I’ll miss, but I intend to keep in touch.” She paused. “If that’s all right with you.”

Tarian blinked. “Of course.”

“Good.” Cassie snuggled closer. She peeked up at Tarian again and saw her gazing fondly at her. “What?”

“Nothing. Only, if we’re going to get home before it gets dark . . .”

“Don’t wanna move,” she complained, inhaling Tarian’s enticing scent. “Comfy, right here.” She basked in the feeling of well-being until a thought struck her. “Do you think James is all right at the hospital? He looked . . . Well, you saw him. He looked terrified. Maybe we should try to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s been terrified all his life,” said Tarian.

Cassie frowned. “That sounds a little cold.”

“It’s just the truth, Cassie.” Tarian cocked her head. “At some basic level James was, is, and always will be terrified of the Fae. You saw how he was around me. Fearful, wary. The best thing would be for me to stay as far away from him as possible.”

Cassie sighed. “Yet you’re the one who rescued him. It isn’t fair.”

Especially since it robbed you of your immortality. Oh, my love, I hope you don’t ever regret that. But she knew Tarian well enough by now to know that if Tarian did, it would only be in passing. The Fae lived in the moment, a trait Cassie envied.

“One act of kindness set against a lifetime of cruelty.” Tarian shrugged. “It hardly balances the scales.”

“I wonder what will become of him.”

“He’ll get a job involving animals.”

Cassie blinked. “Can you see into the future now?”

Tarian laughed. “No. But James was a pigboy, and you saw how good he was with the horses, and with these two.” She gestured at the dogs, who had settled next to the suitcases and were watching her, tongues lolling.

“Oh.” Cassie’s glance fell on the keys waiting to be returned to the landlord. She sighed. “I suppose we should get going.”

“Mm.” Tarian yawned. “Can’t wait to get back. Who would have thought moving you out of your flat would be so eventful?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I got a great idea for a painting. That watchtower on the hill.”

Cassie hugged her.

“I wish I could share the driving,” continued Tarian, stroking Cassie’s hair, “but when we get back, we’ll have a long soak in the bath and then,” she held Cassie’s gaze, “go to bed.”

“Have you been reading my mind again?”

Tarian chuckled. “No, just your emotions and your body language.”

“Hm.” It always disconcerted Cassie when Tarian did that. On the bright side, she would never have a girlfriend who didn’t understand her.

“About the driving,” said Cassie, “don’t feel bad. I’m glad I have something to contribute. With your magic, a girl could get an inferiority complex.”

“But you won’t,” said Tarian, making it sound like an order.

Cassie smiled. “Okay.” She reached for the keys. “Ready?”

The dogs got to their feet, and Tarian nodded. “Let’s go home.”

THE MAN IN the white coat tugged the door closed behind him.

Alone once more, James relaxed back against his pillows. “Dr. Stuart, clinical psychologist.” He tasted the words.

So many new words, sights, smells, and flavours. It was overwhelming. And the most overwhelming thing of all? That apart from the Fae who had brought him to this place and given him his name, everyone looked like him, was like him.

People were imperfect, ugly. Dr. Stuart was stoop-shouldered and wore things called spectacles—to correct his poor sight, apparently. Nurse Williams was so fat she waddled. And no one worked magic. In fact, they laughed whenever he mentioned it.

He was glad they were no longer sticking sharp needles in him and asking questions that made his head ache. They believed he had lost his memory.

“You’ve been ill, James,” the nurses had told him, and Dr. Stuart had repeated it this morning. “But you’re in good hands. No one knows what trauma,” another new word, “made you lose your memory. But in time it should return.”

James didn’t disabuse them, though he wished he had lost his memory. He woke often during the night, fearful that this had all been a dream and he was back with Blacktail and the pigs. But each time, the bright light streaming through the window from the corridor reassured him.

The door opened, and Nurse Williams put her head round it. “Your parents are here to see you, James.”

“Parents?”

She came fully inside the room. “Don’t you remember them either? The police traced them. Their names are Janet and Phil Farley. They’ve come all the way from Croydon. They’ve agreed to look after you, until your memory comes back.”

James blinked at her.

“Chin up. They may be strangers, but you’ll soon get to know them again.”

There was movement in the corridor outside, and he caught a glimpse through the window of three people. One was a straight-backed, middle-aged man with hair as red as James’s own and a bushy moustache. He was talking to Dr. Stuart. The woman with him was shorter than he was, fair-haired and rather plump. She looked tired and apprehensive.

Something about the couple’s features reminded James of the reflection he had seen whenever he washed himself in the water trough. Could they truly be my parents? His heart hammered in his chest.

“May we come in?”

Phil Farley was standing in the doorway, stroking his moustache. He looked an enquiry at Nurse Williams then at James.

“Of course,” said the nurse, beckoning. “Now don’t be scared,” she told James.

“He looks different, somehow,” said Janet Farley, coming to stand next to her husband. “Smaller. Frailer. Not so vicious.” She spoke in a low voice, but James’s sharp hearing picked it up.

“Hush,” said her husband. “Don’t let him hear you. You know what he can be like.”

That puzzled James. He had never met them before. Perhaps he should say as much. He took a breath and held out his hand. “My name is James Farley. They tell me you’re my parents, but I’m afraid I don’t remember you at all. Perhaps we can start again?”

The glance they exchanged was unfathomable, but they drew closer, and the tension in their faces and shoulders eased.

“Hello, James.” Janet gave him a searching look.

He put on his best smile. “Pleased to meet you.” Her lower lip trembled and her eyes looked suspiciously wet.

Phil slipped his arm around her waist. “Hello, son,” he said gruffly. “Pleased to meet you too.”

PART 3

THE RAGGEDY BUSH

Chapter 1

Just visible from Bourn’s Edge, across the mist-filled valley, lay the village of Nether Hopton. For as long as its oldest resident could remember, the raggedy bush had stood on the common, scraps of clothing fluttering from its thorny black branches. The colour remained bright on those rags tied recently, but age and exposure to sun, wind, and rain had faded and rotted the rest.

The hawthorn had started life as a seed in a pile of bird droppings. At first its existence was precarious, and only by sheer luck had the seedling escaped the attentions of the livestock that grazed the common in those days. While a sapling, it had almost become fuel for a starving villager’s wood stove. But somehow it had survived, becoming a fully-grown, albeit lopsided tree. Then one day, someone, a passing Traveller perhaps, who had seen the rag trees and raggedy bushes across the Irish Sea, hung a rag from its lowest branch.

Perhaps his love was ill or dogged by misfortune, and he hoped that, as the scrap of her clothing rotted, so her illness would vanish. Or perhaps his reasons for tying the rag were more selfish—dreams of fame and fortune, sex and influence. No one knew whether his wish, whatever it was, was granted. But the custom he started caught on.

For far stranger beliefs than raggedy bushes were held by those living in the lush hills and valleys that separate England from Wales. On the hillside above Nether Hopton, for example, stood an ancient ring of stones. Some called them the Nine Sisters, for there were nine stones in all, and swore to strange goings-on in their midst on a Midsummer’s Eve.

BY THE TIME Cassie reached the stop at Nether Hopton, she was five minutes behind schedule. She screeched to a halt just inside the Raggedy Bush’s car park, turned off the ignition, and leaped out of the driver’s cab.

Three people were queuing next to the mobile library sign. They watched her run round to the library’s side door with differing expressions. The stooped old woman scowled, the teenage boy’s cheeks flushed as red as his hair, and the plump woman with the dangly earrings gave a friendly smile and called out, “Got lost did you, love?”

“Took a wrong turning,” admitted Cassie, unlocking the door. “Sorry.”

When she had taken this job she hadn’t realised how much geography she would be expected to memorise. The mobile library worked on a fortnightly cycle, which meant taking a different route every day for two weeks. The roads and lanes honeycombing these hills and valleys weren’t exactly straightforward and the satnav couldn’t help—some stops were known only by local names unmarked on any map, and then there were the short cuts privy only to the natives. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and already she’d overshot and had to reverse up a steep hill, taken three wrong turns, and been forced to ask for directions twice. But with familiarity things should improve. At least she hoped so.

Cassie unlocked the library’s door and took the single step up. Her customers followed her inside, clutching their returned library books. She settled herself behind the counter and smiled. “Yes?”

The old woman plonked three Westerns in front of her. Cassie swiped the scanner over the barcodes and looked at her computer screen. The books were two weeks overdue, but her age exempted Mrs. Norville from any fine.

“Thank you,” said Cassie.

Mrs. Norville grunted and headed for the shelves at the rear of the library labelled “Large Print.” The teenager was next.

“Yes?” prompted Cassie.

He had brought back two Fantasy blockbusters. They weren’t overdue, but even so he remained standing at the counter. She looked a query at him. His blush deepened.

“Has my book come in yet, Miss?”

“Oh I’m sorry. Did you reserve one?”

“Two weeks ago.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I was told it would be in today.”

She reached for the keyboard. “I’ll check.”

According to the details on the screen there should indeed be a book for Ian Cork lurking in the plastic crate under the counter. Cassie raised the lid and found it: a fat Science Fiction blockbuster, recently published. He would have snatched it from her before she had stamped it if she had let him. With a grin, she watched him hurry towards the exit.

Another satisfied customer.

“Just the one this time, dear.” The plump woman with the dangly earrings held out her book. “It shouldn’t be overdue.” It was a battered copy of Rebecca.

Cassie scanned the barcode. “That’s fine. Thank you, Mrs. Sheldon.”

She sensed that the woman would like to stand and chat, and gave her watch a surreptitious glance. “Erm. I’m afraid there’s only a few minutes left.” Some stops on the route merited five minutes; others were allowed up to forty. It must depend on population density or something.

Mrs. Sheldon smiled. “It doesn’t take me long to find a book.” But she took the hint and drifted away to scan the packed adult fiction shelves.

Mrs. Norville returned to the counter clutching two large print Westerns. Perhaps she’d already read them, because she was still looking grumpy when she exited the mobile library.

“Don’t mind her,” said Mrs. Sheldon, following the direction of Cassie’s gaze. “Her arthritis is playing up.” She handed over a book, the latest by Joanna Trollope.

“It’s had good reviews,” commented Cassie, handing it back with its date stamped.

“Has it?”

She nodded and got to her feet. “Sorry. Time’s up. I’m afraid I’ve got to get going or I’ll be even more behind schedule.”

Mrs. Sheldon’s expression became sympathetic. “You certainly have your work cut out.” She turned and headed for the exit. Cassie followed her.

“It’ll be better once I know all the routes and short cuts.” Cassie pulled the door closed and locked it.

“I’m sure. See you in a fortnight then.”

Cassie nodded and sprinted for the driving seat.

THE WOLFHOUNDS’ EXCITED whines drew Tarian back to her surroundings. As they rose from their baskets and padded out into the hall, she glanced at the studio wall clock.

That time already? She stretched the stiffness from her shoulders. Where’s the day gone?

She could hear Cassie’s voice in the hall, greeting the dogs. She hadn’t heard the car drive up or the front door open. But then, she had been so engrossed she hadn’t heard much of anything.

She was putting the paintbrushes in a jam jar to soak when a thought struck her. Wasn’t it her turn to cook tonight? Boar droppings!

A blonde head appeared round the door. “There you are.” Cassie came into the studio, the dogs at her heels. When she saw the canvas sitting on the easel, she stopped and studied it from several different angles. “That’s the watchtower on the hill, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Tarian draped an arm around Cassie’s shoulders and pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Like it?”

Cassie nodded. “The colours are perfect. Just how I remember them.” She glanced at Tarian and laughed. “There’s yellow paint on your nose.”

Tarian wiped it away with the back of her hand. “Better?”

Cassie wrapped her arms around Tarian’s waist and inclined her face for a kiss. Tarian obliged. “Better,” she said. But there were signs of strain around her eyes.

“Bad day?”

“I’ll tell you over dinner.” Cassie frowned. “Is there any dinner? I can’t smell anything.”

“Um. About that . . .”

“You lost track of the time again, didn’t you?” Cassie laughed. “Never mind. We’ll have salad. It’s a nice day for it.” She gestured at the sunlight spilling through the studio window.

They went through to the kitchen. Tarian got out the plates and a salad bowl and tongs, then fetched the cooked joint of pork from the refrigerator.

She nudged away Anwar and Drysi’s hopeful noses. “This isn’t for you.”

While Tarian carved slices of cold meat, Cassie rooted around in the salad drawer, assembling ingredients to slice and toss. Then Tarian used a spell to scrub and boil some new potatoes.

“We could have waited twenty minutes,” chided Cassie, as Tarian transferred them to the plates and added generous lumps of butter.

“I’m hungry.” She had forgotten to eat any lunch. She opened a bottle of white wine and poured them each a glass then sorted out food for the dogs.

Cassie finished transferring the dressed salad to their plates and glanced at Tarian. “Enough?”

“Plenty.”

She tossed the dogs a boar’s thighbone each. They squabbled over which was the largest, until she stopped them with a command. Chastened, they grabbed the nearest bone and followed her and Cassie out into the back garden.

They ate off trays on the bench beneath the rowan tree, while the dogs crunched their bones on the grass next to them. Tarian’s eyes roved. The garden looked a lot more civilised than it had, thanks to Cassie. The lawn’s bare patches had been reseeded and new flowering shrubs were growing in the borders. There was also a bird table and birdbath, and some blue tits were pecking at the peanuts.

Cassie’s shoulders relaxed, and the tension around her eyes eased. Soothed by the cooing of pigeons in the adjoining forest, the breeze rustling in the rowan’s branches, and the buzz of busy insects, they finished their dinner in companionable silence.

Tarian indulged in a languid stretch before taking the trays indoors. She returned with a choc-ice for Cassie and the opened bottle of wine. After refilling Cassie’s glass and her own, she resumed her seat on the bench and draped her arm around Cassie’s shoulders.

“You were going to tell me about your day.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” Cassie broke the ice cream’s crisp, chocolate coating with her teeth. “I wish it wasn’t always such a rush. Whoever designed the library routes and schedules must have had superpowers . . . or no regard for the speed limit.”

“It’ll get better. You’re still finding your way.”

“Tell me about it.” Cassie shook her head and sighed. She concentrated on her ice cream for a few minutes. “Did you know there’s a stone circle across the valley from here? Just up the hill above Nether Hopton.”

Tarian nodded. “On a clear day, you can see it. I can sometimes sense it too.”

Cassie looked at her. “Sense it?”

“Stone circles are places of power. They focus it, concentrate it.”

“Fae power?”

“Earth power.” Tarian sipped her wine.

Cassie finished her choc-ice and tucked the discarded wrapper in her pocket. “So all that stuff about ley lines is for real?” She sucked her fingers clean.

Tarian snorted. “I didn’t say that.”

There was a blob of ice cream on Cassie’s chin. Tarian wondered whether to mention it.

“Quaint place, Nether Hopton,” continued Cassie. “It has a raggedy bush. I saw it while I was parked outside the pub.” She glanced at Tarian. “Which was named after which, do you suppose? The pub or the tree?”

Tarian blinked at her. “What’s a raggedy bush?”

“Alternate name for a rag tree,” explained Cassie. Tarian was no wiser. “A kind of wishing tree.”

“Oh.” Tarian let her scepticism show.

“There’s nothing to it, then?” Cassie sounded disappointed.

“Unlikely.” Their eyes met. “What would you have wished for?” asked Tarian.

Cassie gave her a fond look. “Nothing I haven’t got already.”

Tarian smiled. “You have ice cream on your chin,” she said. “No. Let me.” Cassie’s hand dropped back to her lap.

One thing led to another, of course. After they’d been kissing for a while Tarian pressed her lips to Cassie’s ear. “The turf out here is dry and springy. With a rug over it, it would be as comfortable as our bed. Want to try it? Sun-warmed skin smells different, tastes different.”

Cassie’s cheeks went a delicate shade of pink. “You’re suggesting we make love in the garden?” She sounded half-appalled, half-intrigued.

Tarian tried to gauge what concerned her. “No one will see or hear us except the birds.”

“All right,” said Cassie, her voice husky. “Fetch the rug.”

DUSK WAS FALLING as a man staggered across Nether Hopton’s common, a bottle dangling from one hand. Once, Eddy Spurrier had been well-groomed and prosperous, but now, as his rumpled business suit showed, he’d fallen on hard times.

Somewhere a fox barked. Streetlamps blinked into life. In the cottages bordering the common, front room curtains twitched closed, muting the glow of standard lamps and flicker of television screens.

Eddy took another swig of wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and refused to imagine the happy scenes of family life unfolding inside those rooms. His own was dark, neglected. Two years ago his wife had left him and taken their five-year-old daughter with her.

“All you ever think about is that bloody bookshop,” she’d shouted, dragging Poppy towards the taxi that would take them to her mother’s. “Well I’ve had enough.”

He thought it would blow over, she’d come back, but she hadn’t. And now—his lips curved in a bleak smile—the shop for which he’d neglected his family had deserted him too. Or rather it was about to. After months of threatening, the bank had called in his loan.

He stopped in front of the rag-draped tree and stared up at it. He’d tried everything he could think of to dig himself out of this hole—it had only made things worse. The second mortgage had helped for a while, but that money had gone. Friends and acquaintances crossed the road when they saw him now, he’d begged loans from them so often. He’d borrowed as much as he dared from a moneylender, even put money on the horses, but the horses he picked never won.

He raised the bottle to his lips and found it empty. Disgusted, he tossed it away. It landed with a dull thud and rolled to a halt with a clink.

There was still one thing Eddy hadn’t tried.

“After all,” he slurred, pulling one trouser pocket inside out, “what can it hurt?”

The fabric of the pocket lining was threadbare, the stitching weak. It was the work of a moment to rip it out and snag it on a branch of the tree. He stood back to admire his handiwork, sucking a thumb stabbed by a sharp black thorn—he hoped that wasn’t an omen.

“Help me,” he mumbled. “Find me the money from somewhere. Don’t let me go under. Please.”

The silence stretched and the stars looked coldly down. An owl’s hoot sounded mocking in the darkness. Eddy hunched his shoulders and jammed his hands in his pockets, startled by the brush of bare thigh against knuckles. With a sigh, he turned and lurched back across the common. Moments later, his front door clicked closed behind him.

Minutes passed, then a shadow detached itself and moved towards the raggedy bush. Moonlight illuminated a dark-haired man. Slim, handsome, and taller than the average human, he was casually elegant in leather jeans and a leather jacket.

As he studied the lining fluttering from the branch, teeth gleamed in the moonlight. Then well-shaped lips moved in a low murmur, the words belonging to no language spoken by mortal kind, and long fingers traced a shape in the night air.

By the murmur’s end, a change had come over the raggedy bush—one too subtle for human eyes to detect. Face now alight with malicious amusement, the man turned and strolled towards the pub.

Chapter 2

Cassie parked her car in one of the staff only parking bays and walked round to the rear of the Bishop’s Cross library.

The white minibus-cum-van was where she had left it last night, but gone was the coat of dust and dirt so thick you could write obscenities in it with a finger. Glass and chrome gleamed in the morning sunshine. She could even read the stencilled slogan: “Welcome to your library.” Damp patches and disappearing soapsuds dotted the tarmac.

“Morning, Miss Lewis,” called the bearded man in the grubby overalls who had just finished washing it. “Now don’t you go getting her all muddy again.” He finished coiling the hosepipe around the length of his forearm.

“Morning, Harry,” said Cassie. “I’ll try not to. Thanks.”

The maintenance man headed towards his workshop. She admired his handiwork for a moment more before continuing towards the branch library’s rear entrance.

As Cassie entered, a woman looked up from the trolley on which she was arranging books. The librarian was a couple of years older than Cassie, but her pixy haircut and an impish grin made her look younger. “Ah. There you are.”

“Morning, Jenny. What have you got for me today?”

“The usual.” The librarian gestured towards the plastic crate marked “Reserved Books: BC: Route 13.”

While Jenny trundled the heavily laden trolley out the exit and down the ramp, Cassie hefted the crate up onto one hip, and followed her outside. Thank heavens it wasn’t raining, she thought, as she stepped up onto the mobile library, stowed the crate under the counter, and went to help transfer books from the trolley to the mobile’s shelves.

“I’m refreshing the Westerns today.” Jenny swept the old ones off the shelf and began putting new ones in their place.

“Mrs. Norville will be pleased.”

“Is that old biddy still reading them?” Jenny used to drive the mobile library herself, but had never been keen on the driving. When a permanent position in the branch library came up, she’d jumped at the chance to switch. “You’d think she’d be sick of the sight of Westerns by now.”

Cassie laughed. “I went through a Western phase myself when I was a teenager. Must have read every single one my local branch had in stock. Towards the end, though, I was noticing a certain sameness to the plots.”

“Some people like that in a book.” With a grunt Jenny picked up half of the discarded books and carried them outside. Cassie picked up the rest and followed her.

“Not me.” Cassie tipped the books onto the trolley and didn’t bother to straighten them. “I like a bit of originality.”

“Me too.” Jenny gave her an approving look. “Dewi’s the same.” Jenny had met Dewi Price on one of the mobile’s routes, apparently. He lived and worked in Nether Hopton, and after their marriage, Jenny had moved in with him. “He never throws the same thing twice,” she added.

“Throws?” Cassie glanced up from checking her watch. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Jenny grinned. “He’s a potter.”

“Really?” Cassie debated whether to reveal more about her personal circumstances or not, then threw caution to the winds. “Tarian’s a painter. In acrylics, mostly.”

“Is he?”

“She.” Cassie held her breath.

If Jenny’s eyes had gleamed when she realised Cassie’s partner was an artist, now they positively sparkled. “She?”

“Mm.”

“That’s going to break Harry’s heart. Have you noticed the way he ogles you?” Cassie’s eyes widened, and Jenny let out a hoot of laughter. “Just kidding.” Her expression became thoughtful. “We must get Tarian and Dewi together. An artist and a craftsman, they’re bound to have lots to talk about.”

“I don’t know whether that’s such a good idea. Tarian can be a bit of a recluse.”

Jenny waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, Dewi gets like that sometimes too. It’s the artistic temperament. They need space to think and plenty of peace and quiet.”

“That’s true.”

“Anyway. It was only a suggestion. You’re in Bourn’s Edge, aren’t you? That’s just across the valley from us. Why don’t you both come round to dinner one night? Next Saturday, maybe? Or the one after? Dewi won’t mind.” She grinned. “Or if he does he’ll pretend he doesn’t.”

“That’s nice of you,” said Cassie. Though it was fun staying home with Tarian, it wouldn’t hurt to get out once in a while and to widen their circle of friends. “Can I let you know?”

“Of course.” It was Jenny’s turn to glance at her watch. “Oh dear. You’d better get going.” She locked the mobile’s door and threw Cassie the keys.

Cassie snatched them out of the air and headed round towards the cab. “See you later,” she called. “And I’ll mention to Tarian about dinner.”

THE CAR’S HEADLIGHTS illuminated a signpost.

“Nether Hopton, one mile,” read Tarian. “You’re getting good at this.”

Cassie grinned and changed down a gear. “I’m acquiring the librarian equivalent of the Knowledge. Soon people will be asking me: ‘What’s the quickest way from A to B?’ and I’ll be able to rattle off the answer, just like that.”

“The quickest way for the mobile library,” corrected Tarian. “There must be lots of other little lanes and back alleys you know nothing about.”

Cassie sniffed. “Pedant.”

Tarian hid a smile and peered out the window. To a mortal, the view across the valley would have been pitch black, but she could see the rooftop aerials and the shabby church spire of Bourn’s Edge as clear as day. Her heart sank as she contemplated the evening ahead. Cassie had been used to a much more active social life before she moved in with Tarian, so Tarian had agreed to make the effort. But she’d prefer a night’s boar hunting with her dogs to making small talk with Cassie’s new friends. Still, it might give her the opportunity to try her hand at pottery.

Lights twinkling up ahead drew her attention back to her surroundings, and moments later they reached their destination.

Nether Hopton was more spread out than Bourn’s Edge, Tarian saw, as they drove along the dimly lit High Street—probably because this side of the valley was less steep. The village was larger too, and centred around an oval expanse of rough grass with a small lopsided tree standing in the middle of it.

“That’s the common,” said Cassie, following her glance. “And that,” she pointed to a brightly-lit, white-washed building, “is the Raggedy Bush pub. I park the library in their car park.”

Tarian eyed the sign hanging above the pub’s front door—a bad rendition of a tree with coloured rags hanging from its branches. “Call that art?”

Cassie chuckled and slowed the car to a crawl, turning her head from side to side as she searched for the pottery. Tarian joined her.

There was no sign of “Price’s Pots,” only an antique shop, a boarded-up bookshop, a solicitor’s, a greengrocer’s, a hairdresser’s, a well-stocked charity shop, an art gallery—Tarian made a mental note to find out if they would be willing to sell her paintings—and a cramped sweetshop selling puff candy and postcards.

At the end of the High Street, Cassie turned round and retraced their route.

“Perhaps it’s off the High Street,” suggested Tarian when they had reached the other end of the village once more.

“Jenny would have said, wouldn’t she?” Cassie did a ragged three-point turn. The engine stalled and when she tried to restart it wouldn’t. “That’s all I need.” She thumped her palms on the steering wheel. “We’re going to be late.”

“Your friend won’t mind.” Tarian reached over and clasped Cassie’s hand, feeling her agitation and debating whether to cast a calming spell. “Why don’t we ring her? Or ask for directions?”

Cassie blew out a breath. “Sorry.” She gave Tarian’s hand an apologetic squeeze.

“It’s hardly your fault if they didn’t give you clear directions.”

Cassie’s forced smile became genuine. “It isn’t, is it?” She reclaimed her hand and tried to restart the engine. This time it worked. “Thank God for that.” She glanced at Tarian. “Okay. You win. Shall I stop at the pub and ask?”

Tarian nodded.

They were fortunate there was a space in the pub’s crowded car park. Cassie switched off the ignition and got out.

“Want me to come with you?” asked Tarian, getting out to stretch her legs.

Cassie shook her head. “Back in a tick,” she said, and hurried towards the Raggedy Bush’s entrance.

To pass the time Tarian crossed the road to the common and strolled across the rough grass towards the raggedy bush. Strips of cloth fluttered from branches armed with sharp black thorns. As she drew closer, she frowned. Something felt off about the tree. She circled it, eyes narrowed, senses extended. So focussed was she on the tree, she didn’t hear Cassie padding across the grass to join her until the last minute.

“Got it.”

She turned to find Cassie smiling and waving a scrap of paper at her. Cassie’s smile vanished as she registered Tarian’s expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s been tampered with.”

“What has? The tree?” Cassie cocked her head and squinted in the moonlight. “Looks all right to me.”

“It isn’t. Someone’s put a spell on it. Recently too, if I’m any judge.”

“What kind of spell?” asked Cassie.

“Let’s just say that the people who’ve tied rags to it will be getting the opposite of what they wished for.”

“What?” Cassie gaped at her. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Only another Fae could.”

“Another Fae?” Cassie looked around her and lowered her voice. “Is he watching us? Can you sense him?”

Tarian shook her head. “Whoever did this is long gone.” Or knows how to cloak his presence. She wished the dogs were with her; their noses would help to track the perpetrator. But they were tucked up in their baskets, dreaming of stags or boars.

“Can you lift the spell?”

“I think so,” began Tarian, “but—”

“What do you mean ‘but’? You have to lift it, Tarian. You can’t let people be cursed.”

“No argument from me,” said Tarian mildly. “I was about to say that I think it will take just as much power to reverse the curse’s effects, so I might as well do that.”

“Reverse it?” Cassie blinked at her. “So it becomes a real wishing tree, you mean?”

Tarian nodded and managed to brace herself before Cassie crushed her in an enthusiastic bear hug.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you,” came a muffled voice against her chest.

“Yes,” said Tarian, smiling. “But I don’t mind if you mention it again.”

Cassie stretched up and kissed her, then pulled back. Tarian arched an amused eyebrow at her before turning her attention to the tree once more.

She sorted through various spells that might suit and picked one. It was a difficult working, which left her tired, her head aching.

“All right?” Cassie rested a hand on her arm.

Tarian nodded. Already the spell’s backwash was receding. She felt suddenly ravenous. “Is your friend Jenny a good cook?”

“I’ve no idea.” Cassie hooked her arm through Tarian’s and urged her back towards the car.

“You mean you didn’t ask?” Tarian was appalled.

“It would have been rude.” Cassie gave her an amused glance. “Hey, I didn’t ask you if you could cook when you invited me to dinner, did I?”

Tarian sighed.

“Anyway, Dewi might be doing the cooking. I can’t remember.”

They reached the car, and Tarian glanced back towards the raggedy bush one last time before getting in. “I must ask your friends if they’ve seen a Fae on the common lately.”

Cassie finished fastening her safety belt. “More subtly than that I hope.” She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared into life. “We don’t want them to know you’re one too.”

“That goes without saying.”

“And while we’re on the subject,” Cassie backed out of the car park, “we need to get our story straight. Can you remember when and where we met?”

A memory surfaced of scarecrows toppled like ninepins outside Liz Hayward’s B & B, and of Cassie, eyes bright with curiosity, emerging from Liz’s front door. “At the Bourn’s Edge scarecrow contest, of course,” said Tarian.

“Oh, that’s right. I remember now.” Cassie hooted with laughter. “Can’t wait to tell Jenny.” She was still laughing when she turned the car off the High Street into the narrow lane they had missed before.

AS THE TAILLIGHTS faded into the night, the door of Eddy Spurrier’s cottage opened, and a man stepped out into the moonlight. It wasn’t Eddy. But then the cottage didn’t belong to him anymore. A “To Let” sign lay in the postage-stamp-sized front garden, awaiting collection, and the brand new poster tacked to the front window proclaimed: “Faith Healing by Corryn. Enquire Within” in bold red letters.

He strode across the common, the leather of his jacket and jeans creaking with each step. In front of the raggedy bush, he stopped and stood, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.

“Well, well,” he murmured, noting the changes that had been made to his spell. “This is unexpected, not to mention impudent. Meddling with another Fae’s affairs indeed!”

He started to trace a glyph, but let his hand drop, the spell unfinished. “But why repeat myself? Maybe there’s a different sort of entertainment to be had.” He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. Nostrils flared and his brow creased in thought. When his eyelids reopened, his eyes were glittering with recognition.

“Tarian. The last time we met, you were the victor.” He began to pace then stopped as a memory of something he had heard surfaced. “And it seems you’ve developed a fatal flaw at last. That’s handy.” He smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “Perhaps it’s time for a return bout.”

Once more, his lips and fingers moved. When the sparkling mote that was a tracking spell had sped off into the darkness after the vanished taillights, he headed back to his cottage. As he did so, his moon-cast shadow changed, becoming for a moment that of a giant spider. It was an affectation, a trick of light and shadow he liked to play—in the language of the Fae, Corryn also meant spider.

Chapter 3

When Cassie steered the mobile library into the Raggedy Bush’s car park, her regulars were waiting for her. Mrs. Norville scowled—her arthritis must be playing up again; Ian Cork blushed and flicked his hair out of his eyes; and Mrs. Sheldon, wearing hoop earrings this time, gave Cassie a welcoming wave.

Cassie’s smile, as she switched off the engine, owed nothing to those waiting. Her gaze had fallen on the little iridescent dish, containing coins for emergencies, blue-tacked to the top of the dashboard.

The previous Saturday, Jenny’s husband had taken an unexpected shine to Tarian. Tarian had assured Cassie she hadn’t enchanted him. And after dinner he’d been only too happy to show her around his studio. Of course, she had insisted on having a go at making something there and then, and with twinkling eyes Dewi had agreed. It wasn’t the evening either Cassie or Jenny had planned, but they poured themselves another drink and left their respective partners to it. In fact if Cassie hadn’t physically extracted a grumbling Tarian from Dewi’s studio at midnight, she would probably still be there.

The shallow dish was Tarian’s first attempt at ceramic pottery. Something had gone awry in the kiln, or so Dewi said, and it had ended up looking like something by Salvador Dali. Cassie hadn’t allowed her to throw it away, however. “I like the colours,” she’d protested, as she held the dish out of Tarian’s reach—not easy, given Tarian’s much longer arms. “Besides. It has sentimental value.” In the end Tarian had rolled her eyes and let Cassie keep it.

As she jumped down from the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and hurried around to the side of the library, keys at the ready, the world slowed. She blinked, but the effect didn’t go away. It was as though everything around her was in slow motion, an impression reinforced when a sparrow that had been pecking crumbs by the kerb took flight, its wings moving as if it were trying to fly through treacle. Even sounds had slowed, as though someone was playing a tape at the wrong speed.

Cassie was wondering, in growing dismay, if she was having some kind of fit, when a figure materialised in her path. Her heart pounded as she realised it was one of the Fae.

He was taller than Tarian by a head, and like her had inherited his race’s good looks. His hair was short and as black as jet, and, taken together with the black leather jacket and jeans, the overall impression was one of darkness.

Slightly slanted black eyes studied Cassie. She jutted her jaw and returned his gaze.

“What do you want?”

“Quiet.” Gloved fingers clicked, and she found she couldn’t speak. “Come.” Another click, and she found herself following him with as much control over her limbs as a puppet.

Not again!

The last time Cassie had been abducted in broad daylight, Einion had been acting on behalf of Queen Mab. This Fae was a different proposition, Cassie sensed. He was no one’s messenger boy, and whatever his intentions, they weren’t benign.

She remembered the raggedy bush, and her heart sank. This must be who had cursed it. And somehow, he had managed to hide from Tarian. At the thought of her, Cassie sent out a mental SOS, but she doubted it would carry all the way across the valley.

Helplessly she trailed her captor along the High Street, weaving in and out of pedestrians moving at a snail’s pace and oblivious to her presence. She saw Dewi gazing into a shop window, but couldn’t shout let alone raise an arm to flag him down. She was forced to walk on, thoughts whirling.

My regulars will notice I’m gone. But how long will it take them to get help? And how will anyone know where to look for me? Which brought her to her next question. Where is he taking me?

As if in answer, they turned onto a public footpath, of whose existence Cassie had been unaware. A signpost shaped liked a pointing finger read “To the Nine Sisters.”

The stone circle.

Her stomach lurched as unwelcome images surfaced of crazed figures dancing round a bloodstained altar on Midsummer’s Eve. What could he hope to achieve by sacrificing her? Was he angry that another Fae had tampered with his spell? If so, why had he targeted her and not Tarian? Unless . . . The knowledge that he must be aware of Cassie’s relationship with Tarian disturbed her.

They left the village behind and headed towards the stone circle, the gradient steepening, the path growing narrower as they climbed. Soon Cassie’s calf muscles were burning and sweat beaded her upper lip and trickled between her shoulder blades. She felt aggrieved that they had to do this the hard way. Why can’t he just conjure up a flock of eagles to carry us there?

At last the gradient lessened, and the Nine Sisters came into view. Cassie’s relief at reaching their destination was mixed with apprehension.

Her abductor entered the ring of stones, which wasn’t as large as she had expected, and waited for Cassie to join him. “Sit.” He pointed to one of the standing stones. Her legs carried her up the slight incline and sat her down in front of it.

A click of his fingers returned control of her limbs, and she saw the moment when time snapped back to normal—a clump of pink flower heads bobbed and swayed, and a bluebottle lifted noisily from a pile of fresh rabbit droppings. She sagged back against the lichen-covered stone, worn by time and the elements.

He began to pace round the perimeter, stopping now and then to close his eyes. Once, his nostrils flared. Cassie wondered what he was doing.

In other circumstances she might have been content to be up here. It was a pleasant day, and the stones had muted the busy hum of traffic so she could hear birdsong and a magpie chattering nearby. A sparrow hawk surfing the thermals above let out a fierce cry, and a welcome breeze sprang up, drying her sweat and fluttering strands of her hair. If she craned her neck and peered between two of the stones, she had a wonderful view across the valley. She could make out the spire of Bourn’s Edge’s church. It had never seemed so far away.

Cassie clasped her shaking hands together. The movement attracted the Fae’s attention, but his glance was incurious. He wandered back to the circle’s centre, sat down cross-legged, and made himself comfortable.

“Now,” he said, “we wait.”

TARIAN WAS TRYING to decide which frame would best suit her latest canvas when the phone rang. She went through to the sitting room and picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Tarian Brangwen?” asked a man’s voice.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Nether Hopton police station. Sgt. Wilkins speaking.”

A jolt of alarm shot through her. “How can I help you, Sergeant?”

“Is Miss Lewis there? Miss Cassie Lewis?”

“No.” Tarian glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. “She’s at work.”

“Driving the mobile library?”

“That’s right.” A chill ran down Tarian’s spine. “Has there been an accident?”

“Not as such.” His sigh travelled down the line. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Brangwen, but it looks as if Miss Lewis has gone missing.”

“Missing?”

“Her mobile library was found abandoned two hours ago. She was last seen parking it in the Raggedy Bush car park, then . . . Well, nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Those waiting for her say she vanished into thin air.”

Tarian’s mind whirled. “In broad daylight?”

“The circumstances are a little vague at present,” he admitted, sounding embarrassed. “But it’s a fact that she has gone, and my men are out searching for her.”

“I see.” Nether Hopton and the raggedy bush again. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Now you mustn’t worry, Miss Brangwen.”

Easier said than done.

“Our working theory is that she’s suffering from amnesia and has wandered off.”

Tarian didn’t tell the policeman what she thought of his theory. “Should I come—?”

“Stay put,” he ordered. “We’ll let you know if there are any developments. In the meantime, Miss Lewis could be seeking familiar faces and surroundings. I know Bourn’s Edge is on the other side of the valley, but amnesia sufferers have been known to travel greater distances than that. Will you inform us at once if she should turn up? My number is . . .”

Tarian jotted it down on the writing pad. When the Sergeant had rung off, she replaced the receiver, and stared blindly out of the window.

A wet nose pushed itself into her hand, and she glanced down into anxious brown eyes. She squatted and hugged Anwar and Drysi to her, taking what comfort she could. Then she drew back with a frown. “Something feels wrong.”

Cassie’s binoculars were hanging from the coat peg in the hall. Tarian slung them round her neck, opened the front door, and stepped outside. The dogs followed her.

“Afternoon, Tarian,” shouted Mike, as Tarian strode past his garage. She gave him a distracted wave but didn’t stop to talk. News that Cassie was missing would spread via the village grapevine soon enough.

At the viewpoint a little further down the hill, which provided one of the best views across the valley, she stopped and raised the binoculars to her eyes. After five minutes’ intensive scanning, she let them drop.

“This isn’t working,” she muttered. “All it’s doing is making me dizzy.” Think, Tarian. Think.

She closed her eyes and gathered her strength. Then with a mental push, she sent her Fae senses winging their way across the valley. Minutes passed as she scanned Nether Hopton and the surrounding hillside, keeping her focus general but sensitive to the pattern in the weave of existence that was Cassie, a pattern as familiar to her as her own.

Nothing.

Tarian felt a growing sense of dread. Suppose she’s dead.

Something snagged her attention, and, as a falcon swoops on its prey, her senses dived towards it. The trace was far stronger than it should have been at this remove. That puzzled her until it dawned on her that something had to be amplifying it. Her eyes snapped open, and she raised her binoculars once more and trained them on the Nine Sisters.

There, among the nine standing stones—a flash of peacock blue. Hadn’t Cassie been wearing a top that colour when she left for work that morning?

Eagerly Tarian reached out with her senses again, but this time something blocked her. She knew at once what it was. Who it was.

Moon and stars! What was Corryn doing here?

Tarian’s last encounter with this particular Fae had been at a tournament, when, as Mab’s champion, she faced him in single combat. She had won that bout, much to Corryn’s displeasure. Soon after, Mab had banished him from Faerie, or so Tarian had heard.

Of course. Where else could he go except to the mortal realm? He’s been living here and up to his usual tricks—seeking amusement at others’ expense—ever since.

It all fell into place. It was Corryn who had tampered with the raggedy bush and cloaked his presence so Tarian couldn’t sense him. And there could be only one reason for abducting Cassie and taking her to a place of Earth power that would amplify and advertise her presence.

Cursing, she hurried back up the hill. Corryn was never one to fight fair unless forced to. And since their last encounter, Mab had stripped Tarian of her immortality. But if Cassie’s life was at stake, what choice did she have?

Her hands bunched as she considered how to tip the odds back in her favour. From what she could remember, Corryn had few weaknesses. His love of malice and mischief meant not many in Faerie loved or even liked him, but on only one occasion that she knew of had he ever made a serious miscalculation. It had not been his intention, she was sure, to make Mab look foolish, but somehow he had. That was something the Queen never forgave or forgot.

Tarian missed a step as the germ of an idea came to her. Maybe, just maybe . . .

Squatting, she locked gazes with Drysi, while Anwar looked on and panted.

I have an urgent errand, Tarian sent. If you fail, it could cost Cassie dear. It could cost me dear too. Drysi pricked her ears and whined, and Tarian patted her neck. Now listen well. Here’s what you must do . . .

Chapter 4

“What’s taking her so long?” said Corryn. It was just after sunset. “Perhaps she doesn’t care what happens to you after all.”

He looked at the mortal sitting with her back to one of the stones, but she didn’t react to his barb. Evidently she’d learned that her anguish and pain amused him and was refusing to cooperate. Shame. It had been fun playing with her mind, exploring her terrors—the fear of heights, of spiders, of burning, of drowning, of being crippled . . .

How many fears these mortals have.

He tried to see what Tarian saw in such a snivelling, unattractive weakling. But perhaps the mortal felt more for Tarian than the Fae felt for her. It was interesting that her strongest reaction had been to his illusion of Tarian dying in her arms. She was a shaking, blubbering mess after that. Maybe he would try it again, to relieve the tedium.

Corryn raised his finger and pointed, but paused as a familiar presence registered. It was distant as yet, but coming closer. He let his hand drop and swung round, testing and confirming what he could feel.

“She’s coming.”

At last, a reaction. The mortal lifted her head and looked at him, eyes dull and full of misery.

So gleeful was he at the success of his plan, Corryn almost skipped to the circle’s perimeter. He hummed a few bars of a bawdy ditty once popular in Mab’s court, drummed his fingers on the hard surface of a stone, and stared out into the gathering darkness.

There. That tall figure striding up the footpath towards the circle, a wolfhound at her heels.

“I wondered if she might flee, but she hasn’t.” Corryn felt the need to explain. “After all, the last time we fought, she was as immortal as I am. But now . . .”

He threw back his head and laughed. “How does it feel to know that you’re going to be the one responsible for her death?”

The mortal said nothing but her eyes spoke volumes.

BY THE LIGHT of the slowly rising moon, Cassie watched Tarian climb towards the Nine Sisters, Anwar padding behind her. From the paint spattering her grey sweatshirt and jeans, Tarian had come straight from her studio.

Cassie’s heart was in her mouth. It had been the worst few hours of her life, but her relief that rescue was in sight warred with terror for Tarian’s safety. As Tarian stepped inside the ring of stones, Cassie struggled to her feet and lurched forward, calling out her name. Seconds later, she found herself pinned against a standing stone, head spinning, shoulder blades bruised.

“Leave her alone, Corryn.” Tarian’s voice, full of menace, carried on the night breeze. “Your fight is with me.”

“But tormenting mortals is such fun.” He folded the finger he had pointed at Cassie, and the pressure holding her in place vanished. She stumbled to one knee and put out a hand to steady herself. “And we must take our pleasures where we find them,” he continued. “Don’t you agree?”

Tarian’s expression became glacial. “Don’t include me in that ‘we.’”

“Oh come now. A former favourite of the Queen’s can hardly take the moral high ground.”

“I’m not that Tarian anymore.”

“Aren’t you?” He sounded sceptical.

Tarian gave an impatient flick of her hand. “Enough. You wanted my attention. You have it. Now what?”

He studied her. “You’ve gone soft.” His lip curled. “You’ve lived among mortals for too long.”

Tarian’s eyebrow arched. “Strange. Living among them doesn’t appear to have softened you in the slightest.”

She murmured something to Anwar, and the dog bounded across the circle to Cassie’s side. Grateful tears pricked Cassie’s eyes as he licked the back of her hand, before turning and placing himself between her and Corryn. His hackles rose, his lips drew back from his teeth, and a low warning growl issued from the back of his throat.

Corryn let out a peal of laughter. “You think a hound can protect her from me?”

Tarian shrugged, folded her arms, and waited.

“Very well.” He folded his arms in mocking imitation. “You asked ‘now what?’. We fight, of course.”

Tarian’s glance took in the featureless turf bounded by the stones. “With what?”

He unfolded his arms and gestured. A pile of lethal-looking swords and daggers—made of bronze rather than steel, from their colour—materialised at Tarian’s feet. “Choose.”

She regarded him for a long moment before crouching down and sorting through the pile. No morning stars, at least, thought Cassie, remembering Tarian’s dislike of the weapon.

Tarian selected a sword and a dagger and tried a few practice passes. “These will suit me.” She straightened and inclined her head. “Your turn.”

Corryn selected a sword and dagger, and vanished the remaining weapons with a wave of his hand. “To the death,” he said.

“But that would give you the advantage.” Tarian frowned. “As I am sure you are aware.”

“Your point?” His grin was provocative.

“Where is the honour in such an uneven match?”

“Is exchanging your life for hers,” he indicated Cassie, “uneven?” His grin widened. “Besides, who said anything about honour?”

Tarian regarded him coolly. “I propose a more fair fight—to what would have been the death.”

His grin vanished. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“No fun but the satisfaction of a victory justly earned.” He opened his mouth to reply, but Tarian continued, “Consider this, Corryn. Word of this bout will reach Mab’s court. That much is certain. For though I may not live to bear witness, the birds and insects, the Midsummer breeze itself, will carry the news.” She cocked her head. “I may no longer be immortal but I am still Fae. And the Queen loved me once. Would it be wise, do you think, to anger her further?”

Tarian’s reminder made him frown. “Oh all right.”

I don’t trust him, thought Cassie, just as Tarian turned her head and looked at her. They locked gazes. “Don’t risk it,” she wanted to shout, but the words stuck in her throat. A sense of shame filled her. I’m a coward. I can think only of saving my own skin.

Tarian’s expression softened, and Cassie remembered that Tarian often seemed to know what she was thinking. This must be one of those times. Yet, far from condemnation, all she could read in those eyes was compassion.

“Courage,” mouthed Tarian, before turning to face Corryn once more.

He twirled his sword three times, then his manner became businesslike. “Shall we get on with it?”

Adopting a relaxed, slightly crouching posture, he raised his sword and dagger and shifted his centre of gravity over the balls of his feet. Tarian adopted a similar stance, and the two began to circle one another.

Bronzed blades flashed in the moonlight, but the clash of metal on metal sounded tentative to Cassie’s ears, and she realised that this was a testing of reflexes, a probing of defences, nothing more. Even so, something odd was happening. Whenever the blades touched, there was a spark.

The combatants paused, faces wearing identical expressions of puzzlement.

“Earth power?” wondered Corryn.

Tarian nodded. “Reacting to Fae magic?”

“Our own firework display.” Corryn grinned. “Splendid.”

He resumed his stance and circled her once more. Tarian adjusted her grip and kept her gaze on his face. The two closed, and this time the fight was in earnest. Corryn let loose a flurry of vicious strokes so fast that Cassie almost forgot to breathe. Fortunately, Tarian’s parries were like quicksilver too.

Each clash of blades produced a bolt of energy. One almost hit Anwar, but he yelped and ducked out of the way in time. Several stones soon sported chips and smoking gouges. The fiercest bolt yet struck the stone behind Cassie. With a loud crack, rock that had stood since Neolithic times shattered. A splinter stung her cheek, and she clapped a hand to it and studied the result. The streak of blood on her palm looked black in the moonlight.

“Wait,” shouted Tarian. She tucked her dagger in her belt and her low murmur filled the circle. The shape her hands described glowed in the night air before dissolving.

Corryn’s sword lashed out.

“Tarian!” gasped Cassie.

But Tarian had already reacted to Corryn’s sneak attack, ducking away from the scything blade and bringing up her own sword. Weapons clashed, and lightning flashed. An energy bolt headed straight towards Cassie, glanced off some invisible barrier, and caromed off a standing stone. The top half of the stone cracked off and landed with a thud, sending up a spray of dirt and torn turf.

If Tarian’s spell hadn’t protected me . . . Heart in her mouth, Cassie returned her attention to the fight. Tarian’s face was a snarling mask. Cassie wished she could aid her, but she couldn’t risk distracting her. Fists curled in frustration, she willed Tarian on.

There was obviously a knack to fighting with dagger and sword, and both Fae had it. The intricate footwork, graceful thrusts and parries, and interplay of stroke with counterstroke reminded Cassie of a dance. But the turf with its bumps and hollows was far from ballroom standard—put a foot wrong and you could break an ankle.

The combatants broke apart at last to catch their breath and wipe the sweat from their faces. Tarian examined a bloody slash in her right sleeve before regarding Corryn with stormy eyes.

“Must I remind you that this fight is between us? Cassie is a non combatant.”

“Why should I care?” Strands of hair had stuck to his forehead. He swept them back with one hand. “That’s your problem, not mine.” Without warning, he lunged.

They grappled for each other’s wrists, panting and straining, struggling for mastery. Then the hilt of Tarian’s dagger caught Corryn on his temple. He staggered under the blow and took a step back.

“You’ll pay for that!”

“Promises, promises.” Tarian’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

Corryn flung away his sword, put his head down and charged. As they came to grips, his momentum combined with the slight downward slope to carry them half way across the circle. Tarian discarded her own sword—the better to grapple at close quarters, Cassie supposed—and punches flew and daggers rose and fell.

The tide of battle flowed first one way then the other. Cassie could only watch, torn between terror and hope, with her hand pressed to her mouth. But at last, Tarian managed to twist free of Corryn’s grip, draw back her arm, and thrust her dagger home.

As it slid beneath his ribs, he let out an animal-like grunt. For a moment they stood, locked as if in some grotesque embrace, then Corryn shoved Tarian away, and she let him.

Blood covered the dagger in Tarian’s hand. As Corryn dropped to his knees, lips moving, hands weaving a spell, she crouched and wiped the blade clean on the grass. “In anyone else that would have been a mortal blow. Our fight is over.”

It took a moment for him to heal his wound, then he got to his feet. He examined the gashed leather of his jacket with annoyance. “You’ve ruined it.”

“Buy yourself a new one.” Tarian turned to Cassie and beckoned.

Cassie took an eager step towards her, but Corryn’s “Not so fast, mortal,” stopped her in her tracks. She turned and gaped at him. A smile was playing around his lips.

“I’ve changed my mind about the rules, Tarian. To the death, I said. And I intend to have it.”

He motioned, and the sword lying on the far side of the circle flew towards him, hilt first. Corryn snatched it out of the air and threw himself at Tarian, who only just brought up her dagger in time.

Dismayed, Cassie retreated. The energy bolts generated by the blows and strikes that ensued were dazzling. She flinched as yet another one bounced off her protective bubble. The coruscating display must be visible from Nether Hopton. What were the villagers making of it? A local thunderstorm?

Something warm and wet nudged her hand—Anwar. A thought struck her, and she crouched next to the dog. “Where’s Drysi?” He whined and pawed the turf. She wished she could understand him.

The pace of combat slowed, and it seemed to Cassie that there was less skill involved, more mindless slogging. Curses and grunts of effort came from the two figures fighting among the increasingly battered stones. Tarian’s forehead was streaked with sweat and grime, and she looked exhausted. The numerous cuts and slashes she now sported caused Cassie a pang of apprehension and puzzlement. Was it simply that Tarian hadn’t had the time or opportunity to heal herself, or was she trying to conserve her resources?

Tarian’s discarded sword lay on the turf nearby. Perhaps if I—Cassie had taken a step towards it before she came to her senses and looked up, fearful that her action might have distracted Tarian.

It had. And as she watched, Corryn’s dagger slammed home.

“No!” howled Cassie, as Tarian dropped her own dagger, her hands coming up to clasp the hilt protruding from her abdomen. Her eyes were full of agony, but she made no sound as she collapsed to her knees and curled up around the terrible wound. Her neck looked horribly vulnerable to Corryn’s blade. “Look out!”

But Tarian didn’t seem to hear Cassie’s warning.

“Say goodbye to your protector, mortal,” crowed Corryn. He raised his sword high. “When she’s dead, you’re mine.”

TARIAN’S WOUND WAS excruciating, but she set her jaw against the pain and left the dagger where it was—she had neither time nor energy to deal with the blood loss. She had hoped to make her move earlier, in less precarious circumstances, but Corryn had proved far wilier than expected. His guard was down at last, though, distracted as he was with taunting a horrified Cassie.

I’ll wipe that smile off your face.

With a pang of regret that this might be her last sight of Cassie, Tarian turned her focus inwards. It had been distracting, storing in her mind the complex working she had prepared earlier, but it was vital if she were to be able to activate its component parts with a thought and a gesture. What she was attempting was risky, but with Cassie’s life in the balance . . .

Pushing her doubts aside, Tarian triggered the first part of her spell. Then, with a grasping, twisting motion, she called on the circle’s power to amplify her magic.

“What—?” said Corryn, as his blade cleared the crown of her head by a fraction of an inch. “How could I miss at that range?”

His gaze shifted, and his eyes widened. He was three feet in the air already, and gaining more height by the millisecond. With a howl of rage he threw his sword at her, but by then he had risen even higher, and it quivered, point first, in the turf by Tarian’s left knee.

She held the dagger piercing her stationary with one hand, and with the other pulled in yet more of the circle’s power. By now, Corryn was preparing to cast a disruption spell. Diverting a precious fraction of her energy, she set about countering it.

Blood oozed between Tarian’s fingers, and sweat trickled down her spine. Her vision seemed to be narrowing—it was like looking down a tunnel. Not good. But I’m almost there.

That must be enough for her purposes, surely? If it wasn’t . . . Well, she had given everything she had. “Say hello to Mab for me,” said Tarian.

With a gesture she activated the second part of the spell, and like an arrow, Corryn sped backwards, his path a long curving trajectory across the valley towards the crossing hidden in the heart of Bourn Forest. His shocked cry became one of outrage that faded into the distance until only the night sounds remained.

It’s done. She slumped back onto the turf and gazed at the stars wheeling high above her.

“Tarian!” Cassie’s face filled her failing vision.

She tried to lift her hand but it had become a lead weight. Warm tears splashed her face, and a rough tongue rasped them away. Anwar. She felt herself being lifted and cradled.

“Can you hear me?” Cassie sounded on the edge of panic.

Tarian managed a grunt.

“You have to heal yourself.”

Heal myself? Even breathing was too much effort.

“Tarian.” She felt herself being shaken, albeit gently. “I daren’t pull out the dagger. If I do, you’ll bleed to death. And if I don’t . . . Oh God, I think you’ll bleed to death anyway.” Hysteria filled Cassie’s voice. “You must heal yourself, Tarian. Now.”

“Can’t.” Tarian licked her lips. “No strength.”

A shocked silence met that admission. Then Cassie went on, “But Nether Hopton doesn’t have a hospital. Never mind that, idiot.” From her tone, she was thinking out loud. “A doctor. There must be a doctor. But how on earth am I to get you to him? Maybe Anwar could help drag you—”

The journey would kill me, thought Tarian. There’s one chance. A small one, some might say infinitesimal, but it might just work. It has to.

She reached out blindly—by now her vision had gone altogether. Her fingers brushed against something, and seconds later, a hand was clasping hers. “Get me . . . centre.”

“I don’t understand,” said Cassie round a sob. “What are you trying to tell me?” Hair tickled Tarian’s cheek. Cassie must have brought her ear closer to Tarian’s mouth.

She tried again. “Centre.” She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. “Of circle.” Then the roaring in her ears became a great rushing wave that carried her away.

Chapter 5

It was a balmy day in Faerie, but then in Mab’s realm, which some called the Summer Country, it usually was. In the flower-dotted glade, the creak of leather and jingle of harnesses, the whicker of horses and murmur of voices had joined the hum of bees and song of woodland birds.

Five Fae, two women and three men, were waiting there, some leaning against tree trunks, some squatting on their haunches, all as bored as their six horses, whose tails swished and ears flicked. Conversation was sporadic.

The handsomest of the men, his long hair tied back in a ponytail, his russet-coloured tunic and breeches covered by a cloak of forest green, was plainly the leader of the group. The other four, clad in grey cloaks and gripping light hunting spears, kept casting him respectful glances. His attention, however, was on the brindled wolfhound lounging next to him, tongue lolling.

“Lord Einion,” said a rider. “How much longer?”

“As long as it takes.” He frowned at the dog. “Are you certain this is the place your mistress meant, Drysi?” The dog held his gaze, and Einion gave a satisfied grunt. Then he whipped his head round and straightened, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. “He is coming. Get ready.”

Knuckles whitened around spear shafts as the others shifted to full alertness.

A loud thud, accompanied by an explosion of leaf mould and gobbets of earth, startled the horses. They whinnied and reared before they could be brought back under control. When the dust settled, the scent of freshly crushed foliage pervaded the glade.

The spear-carriers hurried to surround the black-clad Fae now lying dazed in a clump of bluebells. Blinking up at them, he raised a hand to fend off a spear point that had strayed too close to his eyes.

“Corryn.” Einion’s eyes were like flint, his voice flat. “Has it slipped your mind that you were banished by order of the Queen?”

Corryn scrambled to his feet, his expression one of annoyance. “I assure you, I had no intention of returning.” He tugged his jacket straight and brushed leaf mould off his jeans. “That bitch must have worked a translocation spell on me. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll get back to the mortal realm, and we’ll say no more about it.”

“Not so fast.” Einion gestured. The spear-carriers tied Corryn’s hands behind his back and prodded him towards the spare horse. “That you are here and under arrest is all that matters,” he said. “We will escort you to the Queen so she may pass judgment.”

Corryn’s expression became one of dawning dismay. “Didn’t you hear me?” he said, as his escorts forced him into the saddle before mounting up themselves. “This is Tarian’s doing not mine. She is the one who should be judged.”

But by then, no one was listening.

THOSE HEADLIGHTS ACROSS the valley must be a car making its way along the winding road to Bourn’s Edge. So near and yet so far, thought Cassie.

It was deathly quiet in the stone circle. So quiet she could hear the rise and fall of Anwar’s breathing and the thud of her own heart. But not Tarian’s. She held her hand close to Tarian’s lips and for a moment felt nothing. Then came an exhalation of warm breath so faint she almost missed it. Shakily she sat back and shifted Tarian’s head to make it more comfortable in her lap.

Hang in there, love.

Cassie stroked the dark hair. Tarian’s forehead felt clammy, but she took comfort from the fact that it wasn’t yet cold. She glanced at Anwar. “You know how bad this is, don’t you?”

He lifted his head and gave her a gruff bark, then settled his head on his paws again.

What does that mean? “I wish I could speak to you the way Tarian does.”

Anwar had helped to drag Tarian to the centre of the circle, gripping her by the collar of her sweatshirt and digging his paws into the turf. Earth energy would be most potent at the centre, Cassie supposed. Was Tarian banking on using it somehow to heal her wound? So far it seemed to have had little effect.

I hope this works, love. Because if it doesn’t, I’ll have sat here watching you bleed to death. And I don’t think I could live with that.

One of the images Corryn had tormented her with surfaced: Tarian dying in her arms. Cassie jammed a fist in her mouth, but a sob escaped. Anwar lifted his head.

“It’s all right,” she told him, as much to convince herself. It wasn’t real. I won’t let it be real. She took a breath and let it out. I hope you suffer for this, Corryn. I hope you rot in Hell or whatever the Faerie equivalent is.

She shivered. Though the summer breeze that had sprung up was warm, it felt cold against her bare skin. In a vain attempt to slow Tarian’s bleeding, Cassie had stripped off her blouse and packed it around the dagger hilt. The blouse was soaked with blood.

If she held her watch close to her eyes, she could just make out the dial in the moonlight. She did so. Three a.m. This night seemed interminable.

Anwar got up off his haunches, stretched, and padded out of the circle.

“Where are you going?” she called after him, taken aback. The dog’s unexpected desertion left her feeling alone and afraid. “Looks like it’s just you and me, love.”

Tarian’s face had never looked so drawn. Cassie felt for her wrist. The pulse was there, but very faint. Never had she felt so helpless. The mournful hoot of an owl only served to amplify the vastness of the night. Even the usually friendly stars seemed uncaring, their progress through the heavens unaffected by the drama unfolding in the stone circle below them.

Clasping Tarian’s hand in a tight grip, Cassie sent out a silent plea to whoever might be listening, Please don’t take her from me. I couldn’t bear it.

Silence fell. It was as if the world were holding its breath. Then came the soft padding of feet.

A pulse pounded in her temples. Was it Corryn, returning to finish what he had started? Mouth dry, she draped herself around Tarian. He would have to come through her first.

As though he had just been for an early morning stroll, Anwar padded between the stones. At his heels trotted another wolfhound.

“Drysi!” Cassie uncurled herself and sat up in surprised relief. “Where did you come from?”

Anwar’s mate trotted over to greet Cassie, giving her cheek a long, loving lick, before turning to inspect Tarian. She nudged her mistress’s face with her nose, and, when there was no response, sank to her haunches and laid her head on her paws.

Cassie ruffled Drysi’s neck fur. “I know,” she said. “But you know what they say, ‘While there’s life, there’s hope.’”

Anwar settled down beside Drysi and heaved a very human-sounding sigh.

“I’m sorry.” Cassie transferred her petting to him. “I should have known you wouldn’t desert us.”

Abruptly, the hand Cassie was holding flexed and tried to free itself. At the same time, Anwar and Drysi got to their paws with soft eager barks. Tarian’s eyelids opened, and she looked around dazedly.

Cassie released her grip. “Are you all right?”

Tarian tried to sit up, gave a grunt of agony, and stopped. Sweat beaded her forehead. “Help me,” she said through gritted teeth.

“But your wound—”

“Cassie!” It was a cry of pain, a plea, and an order rolled into a single word, and Cassie stopped her objections at once. She helped Tarian into a sitting position, though it made her gasp and look like she was going to faint or vomit or both.

Fresh blood spilled over Tarian’s hands as she unpacked Cassie’s blouse from around the dagger and grasped its hilt. “Must get this out.”

She was too weak to manage it, though, so it fell to Cassie to do the honours. At first, blood slicked her fingers, and she lost her grip. But her second attempt was successful, and with an unpleasant sucking sound, the dagger came free.

Another agonised grunt from Tarian made Cassie’s insides twist in sympathy. “What now?” she asked.

Tarian waved Cassie to silence and visibly gathered her strength. As her trembling hands moved and her low murmur filled the circle, Cassie’s gaze switched between Tarian’s face and her wound. Each gesture Tarian made must be agony yet only the occasional gasp passed her lips. As the seconds passed, her pallor grew even paler, her features more drawn, but Cassie could do nothing to help. Then Tarian’s hands stilled and dropped to the turf, and her head fell forward on her chest.

It was a moment before a panicking Cassie registered that Tarian was still conscious, though barely. Then, to Cassie’s intense relief, the healing spell began to work its magic: first the deep tissue healed itself, then the more superficial layers, and finally the skin. Where the dagger had sliced open Tarian’s abdomen remained only a livid scar, and as Cassie watched in awe, even that faded.

Cassie wrapped her arms around Tarian, and felt her weakly return the embrace. Then Tarian jerked in her arms and let out a pained gasp.

Cassie loosened her grip. “What is it?”

“Backwash from the spell. Don’t worr—” Tarian’s eyes rolled up in her head, and she fainted.

As she lowered Tarian back onto the grass, the dogs lay down and went to sleep. Cassie’s tension eased. If Tarian were still in danger, they wouldn’t be so calm.

This time Tarian’s pulse was easier to find and was stronger and more regular. The clamminess in her temples had gone too, and that distressing pallor was easing. With a feeling of profound relief Cassie stroked Tarian’s hair. She’s going to be all right! It felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.

Abruptly, a wave of exhaustion overtook her, and she became aware that she was shivering. She stretched out on the turf next to Tarian, but it was cold, so cold, and her only blouse was soaked with Tarian’s blood . . .

Something warm, furry, and smelling of dog draped itself over Cassie. Moments later a second furry presence joined the first. The dogs were heavy, but she didn’t tell them to get off. For the first time that long night, she felt warm and relaxed and able to sleep.

It would be dawn soon. She closed her eyes. Time enough then to see how Tarian’s return to health was progressing . . .

Chapter 6

Tarian shifted on the sitting room sofa and stifled a yawn. Sgt. Wilkins threw her a glance before returning his attention to Cassie.

“So you drove yourself home early this morning, Miss Lewis?” A shaft of afternoon sunlight through the sitting room window illuminated the page of his notebook. “Taking a bit of a risk, weren’t you?” He scratched his nose with the end of his pencil. “Driving so soon after a bump on the head and a bout of amnesia.”

Cassie sipped her tea. “I felt all right by then.”

In fact the car had driven itself home. Tarian hadn’t tried that particular spell before and was rather proud it had worked. She’d had little option, however. Cassie had been dead to the world, and Tarian was still too weak to translocate them all to Bourn’s Edge. Bishop’s Cross library, where Cassie parked, was much closer, so she had transported them there. While Cassie snored on the back seat of her car under a blanket of dogs, Tarian eased herself into the cramped driver’s seat—no sense in alarming other road users with an apparently driverless car—switched on the ignition, and instructed the controls to look after themselves.

Cassie glanced at the teapot. “Would you like another cup of tea, Sergeant? Cake?”

“Better not.” He gave the chocolate cake a regretful glance and indicated his spreading waistline. “My wife has me on a diet.”

“Ah,” said Cassie. She smiled as Tarian helped herself to more cake. Last night had badly depleted her energy reserves, and she was ravenous.

Sgt. Wilkins finished jotting, folded up his notebook, and tucked it and his pencil in his breast pocket. “Well, I think that’s all for now.” He stood up, and Tarian stood up too. “I’m glad things turned out all right in the end, Miss Lewis. But I should get that bump looked at, if I were you. Head wounds can be tricky.”

“I will,” said Cassie.

His glance travelled to Tarian. “You’re looking a bit peaky yourself, Miss Brangwen. The worry, I expect.”

Unoffended, Tarian smiled at him and showed him out.

When she returned to the sitting room, Cassie was frowning. “I’ll have to go to casualty, won’t I?” she said. “Or there’ll be questions.”

Tarian sat next to her on the sofa and clasped her hand. “Want me to make the doctors ‘see’ a bump on the back of your head?”

“Can you do that?”

Tarian nodded. “With a glamour.”

“But a glamour won’t work on a machine, surely?”

“Does that matter? As you told Sgt. Wilkins, it was only a minor bump.”

“Skin deep.” Cassie’s face cleared. “So it wouldn’t have shown up on a scanner anyway.” She threw Tarian a relieved smile. “All right then. A glamour it is.”

THE NINE SISTERS encircled Cassie like massive gravestones. It was silent inside the ring, unnaturally so, and a full moon in eclipse had bathed the turf in crimson. A sense of foreboding swept over her.

Corryn pointed to the dagger lying at his feet and clicked his gloved fingers. “Kill her.”

As in a dream, Cassie watched herself stoop, pick up the razor-sharp weapon, and swing round. A helpless puppet, she lurched to where Tarian stood frozen. Only the sweat beading Tarian’s forehead and the fury in her eyes betrayed the struggle she was waging to break free of Corryn’s enchantment.

Cassie had her own battle to fight. With all her strength she willed herself to stop walking. I won’t hurt her! You can’t make me. But she was a passenger in her own body. She took another step towards Tarian. And another.

Corryn watched her with a smile.

Cassie’s legs brought her to a halt in front of Tarian. She gripped the dagger firmly, raised it . . . and plunged it deep into Tarian’s stomach.

No! she tried to scream, as Tarian’s eyes closed, and she went limp, held upright only by Corryn’s enchantment. Then blood was pumping along the dagger’s hilt, flowing over Cassie’s hands and jeans, and spilling down onto the moon-dyed turf. The cloying, coppery scent of it filled her nostrils, and she stared in horror at the slowly widening circle. Nausea rose in her throat. So much blood! How was it possible?

Before the glistening red pool could touch his boots and with an expression of distaste, Corryn stepped back

“No!” screamed Cassie, finding her voice at last. “Tarian!”

Corryn threw back his head and laughed.

Cassie woke with a gasp and sat up. Her heart was threatening to pound its way out of her chest, and she reached out blindly, found the bedside light, and switched it on. With a sense of overwhelming relief she took in the familiar surroundings—the shabby dressing table with her hairbrush on it, Tarian’s dressing gown hanging from the hook on the bedroom door . . .

She turned, disoriented and fearful, to find a tousled-looking Tarian pushing herself up on one elbow in bed beside her.

“What is it?” Tarian’s voice was husky with sleep. Her gaze sharpened as she took in Cassie’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

At the sight of her, alive and well, Cassie burst into tears.

Tarian sat up and took her in her arms. “It was only a nightmare,” she said.

Cassie tried to speak, but the intensity of her emotion made it impossible. Sobbing, she clung to Tarian, who leaned them both back against the pillows.

“Whatever it was you dreamed, it was just that: a dream,” said Tarian, stroking Cassie’s hair, her back. “You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing can harm you.”

Wisps of Cassie’s nightmare threatened to resurface, kept at bay only by the warmth and strength of the arms holding her. She clung even more fiercely, and Tarian tightened her grip in response. They stayed that way for a long time.

“It wasn’t me I was worried about,” managed Cassie at last, wiping the tears from her cheeks with her fingers. “I killed you.”

“What?” Tarian held Cassie at arm’s length to get a better look at her face.

“I killed you!” repeated Cassie, guilt-stricken. “Stabbed you in the stomach with a dagger.”

“No you didn’t. See?” Tarian indicated her unharmed stomach.

“There was so much blood. You wouldn’t believe how much.” She swallowed thickly. “He laughed.”

“Who did?”

“Corryn.”

At his name, Tarian’s face went hard, then her expression gentled, and she pulled Cassie close once more. “It wasn’t real,” she said. “This is real.”

Tarian’s lips were soft on Cassie’s mouth at first, then more demanding. There was no mistaking the reality of that kiss, or the emotion behind it. And as Cassie’s passion ignited in response, and she returned the kiss, the last lingering remnants of her nightmare dissolved and vanished like morning mist.

TARIAN TOSSED EACH of the dogs a bone and threw herself down on the rug. It was a sunny afternoon, so Cassie had brought her visitor—Jenny from the library—into the garden. There was no room for Tarian on the bench with them, but she didn’t mind. She rested her chin on her arms and let out a contented sigh.

“I can’t see a bruise,” came Jenny’s voice.

“It’s under my hair,” said Cassie. “It was the size of an egg, so the A & E nurse said.”

“Must have been quite a bump to make you lose your memory.”

“Must have.”

“How did it happen?”

Cassie sighed. “I don’t remember.”

“Sorry. You must be tired of people asking.”

“That’s all right.”

“I bet you were relieved when she showed up the next morning, Tarian.”

Tarian twisted to look at Jenny. “I was.” She returned Jenny’s grin. “Even if she did look like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

“I did not. Though I did ruin my favourite blouse,” conceded Cassie.

Tarian arched an eyebrow. She had offered to renovate the blouse, but Cassie had declined. “Too many associations,” she’d said with a shudder. They had thrown it away.

That long night in the stone circle had left its mark on both of them. Now keenly aware of her mortality, Tarian was resolved to cherish every moment of life she had left. As for Cassie, another nightmare had awoken her last night. It had only been a couple of days, true, but if things didn’t improve soon, Tarian would erase Cassie’s memories of what had happened, whether Cassie wanted her to or not.

“Your garden’s lovely,” said Jenny. “Quiet.”

“We like it,” said Cassie.

Tarian rested her chin on her arm again. “It’s mostly Cassie’s doing.” She closed her eyes and let the sun ease the ache in her shoulders. She’d been painting all morning, so caught up in her new canvas she’d forgotten to take a break. Until Cassie came wagging her finger at her.

Jenny sighed. “I can’t even keep a pot plant alive. Dewi’s not much better. We’ve got brown fingers, the pair of us.”

“I bet your husband throws a great flowerpot though,” said Cassie.

“Which reminds me,” said Jenny. “Dewi was wondering if Tarian would like to have another go at making pottery some time.”

“Yes,” said Tarian at once. “I was thinking of trying my hand at a vase next. Or some coffee mugs. Or maybe some egg cups.”

“Egg cups?” echoed Cassie.

“We need a couple more for when we have guests,” she explained.

“Ah.”

Cassie’s birthday was rapidly approaching, and her parents had been muttering about coming to stay the weekend after next. Tarian wasn’t looking forward to it, but for Cassie’s sake she was willing to make the sacrifice.

It dawned on Tarian that she had forgotten to send Jenny and Dewi a birthday invitation. She couldn’t very well mention the surprise celebration while Cassie was present though. Tarian had booked a table for a select few of their friends at the Green Man—they did surprisingly good food if given sufficient notice. Liz Hayward, Mike the mechanic, and Cath from the Post Office had all promised to come. Tarian made a mental note to ring Jenny about it later.

“Great,” said Jenny. “I’ll tell Dewi, and you can make arrangements. Though it had better not be for the next couple of days. He sprained his wrist yesterday, getting some heavy pots out of the kiln.”

An easy silence fell, and the crunching of bones sounded suddenly loud.

“Don’t your dogs keep escaping into the forest?” wondered Jenny.

“All the time,” said Cassie. “But they always come back. So, what’s the latest gossip from Nether Hopton?”

“Well.” Jenny’s voice became animated. “For a start, the stone circle has been vandalised.”

Tarian’s focus had been on getting Cassie and the dogs home without attracting attention. Had she missed something when she restored the circle? She rolled over onto her back and flung her arms out on either side.

“Dewi thinks it must have happened the other night,” said Jenny. “The night you were missing, Cassie. He saw moving lights.”

“And?” Cassie sounded apprehensive.

“Some of the standing stones are chipped. There’s some charring too.” Jenny paused. “Maybe it wasn’t vandals. Maybe it was pagans, dancing around a bonfire.”

“Probably just a thunderstorm,” said Tarian, yawning. “Lightning would account for the lights. And the chipping and charring too.”

“Oh,” said Jenny, disappointed.

Cassie laughed.

“What else? Oh yes. The new faith healer’s done a bunk. Just when we could have used his services too. Oh well. Dewi’s wrist will have to get better on its own.”

“What faith healer?” asked Cassie.

“Oh, didn’t I mention him? Corryn, his name was. Not sure if that was his first or last name. He rented poor Eddy Spurrier’s house. You know. The bookseller who went bankrupt and killed himself?” Jenny glanced at her watch. “Oh! Is that the time? I’d better get on.” She stood up. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Cassie. And thank God you’re coming back on Monday. The temporary driver is useless—we’ve had loads of complaints. Your regulars have been asking after you.”

“Nice of them.”

Cassie led Jenny into the house. Moments later Tarian heard the sound of a car driving away. She rolled over onto her front once more and closed her eyes.

The back door creaked open, and footsteps headed towards her. Cassie dropped with a soft grunt onto the rug next to her. “Shift over.”

Tarian did and waited for Cassie to make herself comfortable.

“Faith healer?” said Cassie. “I wouldn’t have said Corryn was the healing type.”

Tarian twisted so she could see Cassie’s face. “It makes a kind of sense, given his idea of amusement. Tempt people in by promising to heal them and then curse them instead.”

“That’s despicable.”

She shrugged. “That’s Corryn.”

Cassie grunted. “So have you heard from Einion yet?”

“While you were out shopping.”

Mab had been in no hurry to pass judgement on Corryn for returning prematurely, but once she had, Tarian’s old friend had made use of one of the queen’s messengers to bring her the news. The huge black crow had perched on a branch of her rowan tree and croaked the tidings to her, accompanying them with a series of mental images.

“Well?”

“As I expected. Mab chose the most severe punishment available.” Tarian watched understanding dawn.

“She unmade him?”

Tarian nodded. “He argued hard for his life at the end but it did no good. Mab knows how to bear a grudge.” She reached over and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind Cassie’s ear. “He had no advocate to speak for him the way you spoke for me. He’ll never bother us again.”

Cassie said nothing, and Tarian studied her face. She knew how tender Cassie’s heart was. “Does his death trouble you?”

For a moment Tarian thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then Cassie’s nostrils flared, and when she spoke it was in a fierce whisper. “I thought it might. But you know what?” She held Tarian’s gaze. “I’m glad he’s dead. For what he did to us. Glad.”

“Me too,” Tarian whispered, and kissed her.

Epilogue

It was drizzling in Nether Hopton, and those queuing in the Raggedy Bush’s car park wore rain hoods or sheltered under battered umbrellas.

A white minibus-cum-van, with “Welcome to your library” stencilled on its side, came bowling along the road. At its appearance the sun emerged from behind a cloud, and even the arthritic old woman clutching a pile of Westerns broke into a smile.

The mobile library turned into the car park and came to a sedate halt. Its driver got out, hurried around to the side door, and unlocked it.

“Nice to see you back, Cassie,” said the plump woman with the earrings.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sheldon. Nice to be back. Go ahead and choose your books.” Cassie gestured at the open door. “I won’t be long.”

Surprised glances followed her across the road onto the common. Her chin gained a determined tilt as she strode across the wet grass, heading towards the lopsided hawthorn tree that stood at the common’s centre, sodden rags drooping from its branches.

As she walked, she delved in her jacket pocket, and pulled out a paint-spattered strip of grey fabric. “It was only fit for the bin, anyway,” she murmured, as though rehearsing her defence.

In front of the raggedy bush, she stopped and looked up, considering. “After all,” she said to no one in particular, “it seems only fair that Tarian should get some benefit.” But just in case Tarian disagreed, Cassie had made sure not to mention what she was about to do.

Lack of height limited her choices, so after a moment, she stretched on tiptoe, and, careful to avoid the thorns, tied the grey strip to the lowest branch. Having reassured herself with a sharp tug that it wasn’t going to come loose in a hurry, she stepped back. Her gaze turned inwards, and she took a deep breath and let it out. When next she spoke, it was slowly and clearly and in a slightly singsong voice, enunciating every syllable.

“Raggedy Bush, O Raggedy Bush, hear me and hear me well.” Cassie had no idea what the protocol for these things was, so she was winging it. “I, Cassie Lewis,” she went on, “have a wish for you and it is this. I wish with all my heart for Tarian to live a long, happy, and healthy life. And please, if it’s not too much trouble, that I get to spend it with her.”

The tree gave no sign that it had heard her, but what had she expected? For a moment longer, she waited. Then, with a shrug, she turned to retrace her steps.

But as Cassie hurried back towards the waiting mobile library, her lips curved in a secretive smile, and her step acquired a jaunty spring. For she knew something that only one other person living did. This particular raggedy bush, alone amongst its kind, could and more importantly would grant wishes. And as the rag she had torn from Tarian’s favourite sweatshirt decayed, so Cassie’s dearest wish was guaranteed to come true.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Barbara Davies was born in Birmingham, England. A graduate of York University, she worked in IT first in Surrey then in Gloucestershire.

She published her first short story in 1994. Since then, her fiction has appeared in various genre magazines, ezines, and anthologies, including Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, Lacuna, Tales of the Talisman, Sorcerous Signals, Khimairal Ink, Neo Opsis, and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine.

Barbara’s historical novels: Christie and the Hellcat, Rebeccah and the Highwayman, and Frederica and the Viscountess, plus a collection of her specfic short stories: Into the Yellow and other Stories are available from Bedazzled Ink.

Barbara now lives in Gloucestershire. Her website is:

www.barbaradavies.co.uk

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