Storm Warned (The Grim Series) Read online

  Sure enough, his tone grew serious. “Look, we kind of got off on the wrong foot. Neither of us was at our best when we met. You’ve said some really strange things—or at least that’s how I remember it. So I need you to tell me straight: do you remember where your home is? Where you were, who you were, before the storm came?”

  “I know right enough where I’m from, thank you, and exactly who I am. I’m not soft in the head, Liam Cole. And I didn’t tell you a single thing that wasn’t the honest truth.”

  That prompted an awkward silence, but she didn’t care. He might not believe she’d been a grim, but she wouldn’t stand for him thinking there was a thing wrong with her mind.

  Finally Liam said, “Okay, well, lemme talk to Morgan again. I need a rundown on the goats’ injuries and stuff.”

  I could have told you all of that, Caris thought, knowing full well that what he really wanted was to escape the conversation. Hiding her disappointment, she dutifully delivered the phone to its owner and went to help Jay with the speckled horse. He’d found a saddle and tack in the ruins of a blown-down shed and was soon riding out to look for the cattle. The flashy-colored Dodge looked grand in action as he cantered along the fence line. What would it be like to sit astride a horse so tall? Caris liked riding, and she felt a pang in her heart as she remembered her white pony, Eira. The dear old cob had been a good-natured beast, and a friend. She hoped he’d made it back to the farm . . .

  A pang of sudden grief speared her heart. For Eira, for her da, for the farm, for all of it . . . and she remembered her fiddle!

  Her heart stilled as she stood in the middle of the ruined yard, instantly back in the past. She heard again that hideous crack as the beloved instrument shattered in her own hands. Something caught in her throat and knotted in her chest until it pained her to breathe.

  No! She was not going to allow herself to revisit this. She couldn’t bear it. Her heart had been as broken as her dear fiddle, but dwelling on it would be like picking at the scab on a wound. I’m human again, she reminded herself as sternly as she could manage. I have hands and fingers again, don’t I? So I’ll just be finding myself another fiddle!

  The instruments still existed, that much she knew. She’d seen them when she walked the mortal plane as a grim. What the cost might be to purchase a fiddle, she had no idea—but it didn’t matter. If she had to work day and night for years to earn one, then that’s exactly what she would do. Whatever it took, however long it took, she would play her music, her songs, again. And this time, I won’t be having to hide in the woods to do it.

  Still, there were tears on her face. The heel of her hand would have been enough to wipe away one, perhaps two, but there were more, and she had to turn to the hem of her borrowed shirt to blot them all. I can’t be thinking about these things from the past, she thought fiercely. If I do, I’ll start crying like a perfect ninny and never stop. I have a second chance, a second life, and it’s now, not two centuries gone. How or where she was going to live that life, she didn’t yet know, but surely she shouldn’t waste a minute of it pining for what used to be.

  Or yearning for what might be with a certain blue-eyed man . . .

  Liam switched off his smartphone and stared at its dark screen for a long time. Sharp twinges in his forehead and in his eyes reminded him strongly not to frown—yet he kept doing it anyway. Frowning came naturally to him, and it seldom had much to do with his mood (even though his mood had been generally shitty for the past three years). Mostly, his brow furrowed when he was thinking.

  And he was thinking hard about Caris Dillwyn.

  His friend Morgan had given him every detail he could wish for about the condition of his livestock, but most of what she’d said was already forgotten. It was Caris’s words that kept running through his mind—and all in that low sultry voice of hers, with that naturally sexy lilt of which she seemed utterly unaware. Why hadn’t he kept her on the phone, kept her talking? Why did he have to get all pissy and ask for an update on the animals from Morgan instead?

  Because Caris won’t back down on her damn dog story, that’s why.

  He rolled that thought over in his mind a few times. I didn’t tell you a single thing that wasn’t the honest truth, she had said. A lawyer would point out that the woman hadn’t mentioned anything specifically about the dog again—yet Liam’s gut told him that was exactly what she was referring to.

  His gut was telling him a few other things too, things he hadn’t expected to hear. Living at Steptoe Acres, it was impossible to count the number of times Uncle Conall had given what Liam and his cousin Tina had nicknamed “The Famous Gut Speech.” They’d giggled over it when they were kids, but as they’d grown older, their uncle’s wisdom had become evident.

  Liam knew the words by heart. Everybody says you have to decide between the head and the heart, but that’s just so much bullshit. Your heart and your head don’t know a damn thing between them when it comes to other people. Your head can know facts about them, sure—like a criminal record or a Purple Heart—but that’s about it. And your heart only knows how it feels and what it wants, not what the other person is feeling . . .

  And wasn’t that a painful truth? Hadn’t Liam once assumed that Jade felt just like he did, wanted what he did, cared about what he did? And maybe she had, once, but he’d never noticed a change. His heart was happy, so he’d cheerfully taken for granted that hers was on the exact same page. And if any nagging inner voice suggested there might be a problem, he had flatly ignored it. Christ, he’d been stupid.

  . . . It’s the gut you have to listen to, boy. That’s your instinct, that’s what tells you the things you can’t see or feel. Aunt Ruby, now, she goes in for all that psychic woo-woo stuff, but it all boils down to the very same thing: your gut. A million billion years of evolution telling you what is and what isn’t.

  Liam’s gut had plenty to say about Caris Dillwyn. For one thing, she wasn’t crazy and he knew it. That part was a damn relief, really, because he didn’t want her to be crazy. She wasn’t lying, either, but that wasn’t so reassuring, not when he was far from ready to believe what she was saying. Even less comforting was the dead-certain knowledge that he wanted her, period. His gut was telling him that as loud and clear as if someone had announced it over a cranked-to-the-max stadium sound system.

  He wanted her, and it didn’t make a single lick of sense. He knew nothing about Caris in the conventional sense, all that “head” stuff that his uncle talked about. His heart knew little more, only that somehow her presence had stirred up its ashes and uncovered an ember still faintly glowing. As for his dick, well, it had already registered its opinion. Sex was definitely on Liam’s agenda—hell, he’d have to be dead and buried not to have reacted to Caris’s gloriously naked body—but it wasn’t the final destination, not at all.

  He wanted her. All of her. In his arms, in his bed, in his heart. In his life. Period. It wasn’t that fluffy love-at-first-sight stuff you saw in the movies—it was something far deeper, as tangible and solid as bedrock, and as real as rain. It was a revelation and a validation at the same time.

  Now what the hell was he supposed to do with a thing like that?

  In the past, Liam had known what he wanted and gone after it. He’d wanted a music career, and he’d started self-producing CDs of his own songs before he was even out of high school. Jesus, he’d played his tunes everywhere—hot and dusty street corners, weekend farmers’ markets, school dances, rained-out parks, coffee shops, small-town rodeos, and the state fair. No venue had been too small, no effort too great, if it gave him a chance to share his music. He’d had a dream, and he’d pursued it with everything he had in him.

  He’d set aside that dream (hell, he’d driven it over a cliff and set it on fire), but maybe it was time to find out whether the doggedly determined man who would fight for something he wanted was still inside him.

  TEN

 
; The cacophony of strident voices, loud shrieks, and bone-shaking growls echoed off the shadowed stone wall that Lurien leaned against with crossed arms. His stance was deliberately casual, and he even appeared to doze at times, though he was alert to every nuance in his surroundings. His long black hair usually hung in hundreds of loose braids that whipped wildly in the wind when he rode, but today he’d pulled it all back into a simple sleek tail that attracted no attention. Likewise, his dark riding leathers bore no silver, nothing to catch the sun or draw anyone’s gaze from among the glittering costumes and elegant clothing adopted by the newly elected envoys.

  Of course, most of them would recognize the Lord of the Wild Hunt if they really looked, but all were completely preoccupied in being seen themselves. And as they postured, they argued their causes and rehashed old wrongs. In fact, as far as Lurien could discern, no progress had been made at all since the envoys had first gathered in the palace courtyard. Seventy-eight representatives from the Nine Realms formed a ragged ring around the enormous mosaic map of their world in the garden’s very heart. Most of the exquisite flower beds had been trampled early on, either by misstep or on purpose, as if the various delegates jockeyed for physical position as well as political.

  No coalitions and no alliances had formed. No plans had yet been proposed, never mind decided upon. In fact, there was really only one thing anyone agreed on so far, from the largest afanc to the tiniest bwbach—they blamed the Tylwyth Teg for many of the kingdom’s problems. The overwhelming majority felt that the Fair Ones had squandered much of the powerful magic beneath the Black Mountains, depleting it so badly that it might take millennia, perhaps even eons, to recover. Just as the allegations reached a fever pitch, and a fight was about to break out between a pair of giant sinewy basilisks and a troop of small but determined coblynau, the queen quietly appeared in their midst.

  The arguing factions lapsed immediately into silence—and many individuals knelt—as she walked slowly around the broad mosaic map, where crystalline tiles and precious stones glinted in the sunlight yet failed to compete with the queen’s radiance. Everyone knew that Gwenhidw was of the Tylwyth Teg by birth. But if she was insulted by the angry accusations (and there could be no doubt she’d heard them), she gave no sign. Instead, she once more stated her commitment to stand by and for every fae clan in planning for the future.

  “Does that include dragon men?” A pwca, bolder or stupider than the rest of the assembled envoys, dared the one question that Lurien had dreaded. The proud Draigddynion—called dragon men for their reptilian features—were one of the Dark Fae races, and a band of them had been behind the assassination of King Arthfael. Gwenhidw herself had barely survived the attack that took her beloved husband’s life. Lurien had devoted himself in the centuries since to ferreting out the venomous plot, but each time he uncovered one intrigue, another rose up to take its place. There seemed to be no lack of conspiracies, and almost all of them involved the Draigddynion in one way or another. He knew what he wanted the queen to say . . .

  And he knew already what the queen would say, though they had never once discussed it. Lurien’s blood ran hot then cold as she uttered the damning words.

  “All the clans.”

  There was no audible gasp, but the Lord of the Wild Hunt could swear he heard one anyway as the shocked enclave shrank back. His queen stood calm as ever in the very center of the map of the realms. How fitting, he thought, that the question had been asked just as she reached that spot. She was as unyielding in her ideals as she was beautiful, as fierce in her love for her people as a warrior ferocious in battle. Such a sovereign there had never been.

  But Gwenhidw was far from finished, and she turned her attention to Lurien. “If my llaw dde would kindly see to their reception, I do believe the Draigddynion delegation has arrived.”

  It was all Lurien could do not to gape at her. He was indeed the Llaw Dde, the Right Hand of the Queen and as such, he would gladly obey any order she gave, would kill for her or lay down his life for her, as she pleased. But this . . . She knew how he felt. Had he not brought the very king of the dragon men to justice for treachery against her? How could she ask him to not only allow an enemy into this sanctuary but also deliberately bring that enemy within striking distance of her?

  Still, the royal gaze did not yield, and his lips formed the only words they could. “At once, Your Grace.”

  Lurien strode to the forecourt of the palace, his booted footsteps echoing off the polished agate floor. His thoughts had turned as black as his clothing, his temper as dangerous as the light whip he wore coiled at his side. Perhaps it was the turbulent aura he carried that kept all other living beings well out of his path until he arrived at the great crystalline room where guests were received. It appeared completely empty, every carved jade bench around the perimeter unoccupied. He wasn’t fooled, however. Even if he hadn’t known of the dragon men’s chameleon-like abilities, his well-honed senses told him someone was here.

  Lurien simply waited.

  A moment later, his sight seemed to refocus—and a single hooded figure, swathed in plain woven fabric the color of cold ashes, became visible by the tall columnar fountain at the center of the vast room. Strangely, the dragon man was facing away from him, though Lurien’s entrance had been anything but stealthy. Was it a dare—or a taunt?

  I could kill him right now. But Lurien could not bring himself to betray the queen’s purpose, not even to save her from herself. “Our monarch will see you now,” he made himself say, his voice devoid of all emotion despite the twisting in his gut.

  The mysterious figure leapt to its feet and crossed the immense chamber faster than even Lurien’s eyes could track—but an experienced hunter didn’t need to see to fight. Instinct put his right hand on his light whip and gathered all of his magic into the palm of his left. There was no attack to meet, however. The creature simply stopped still—just outside the reach of the light whip, as if it knew its range—and threw back the gray hood.

  Her hood. “And will you slay me as you did my uncle, oh mighty Lord of the Wild Hunt?”

  The palace grounds were brilliant with flowers that bloomed nowhere else in the worlds above or below, yet it seemed that their colors dimmed before this woman’s features, and Lurien sucked in his breath in spite of himself. The most ancient of fae legends claimed that the exotic beauty of Draigddynion females had been at the root of the bitterness and hostilities between the dragon race and the ever-jealous Tylwyth Teg. For the first time in his long, long life, he thought he might believe it.

  Her skin was delicately gloved with smooth miniature scales of palest gold that shone warmly and invited the touch. Pearl-like prominences gleamed along her fine brows and blended into a jewel-like triad that laddered up her high forehead and vanished into the featherlike strands of her lustrous tawny hair. Her golden lips appeared full and soft, and might even have been inviting if not for the determined set to her jaw and the fierce look in her luminous amber eyes. As Lurien watched, her pupils flicked from wide and round to narrow and catlike, as if she had abruptly drawn curtains to keep him from seeing inside her.

  And still, it was not her preternatural beauty but her identity that sent his thoughts spinning. He knew exactly who she was—it was his business as llaw dde to know such things. But nothing in the realms above or below had prepared him to meet her face-to-face, and especially not here. Mistrust harshened his voice. “Where are your fellow diplomats? Your retinue? Your guards?” he demanded.

  She shrugged. “I came alone. I thought it better this way. My people are as suspicious of you as you are of them, and with good reason on both sides, wouldn’t you say?”

  Alone? This woman was incredibly brave or naively foolish to set foot in this part of the fae kingdom, never mind enter these halls by herself. It was far more likely that she was planning to sacrifice herself for the slim chance of disrupting the meeting of the envoys, or harming
. . .

  His thoughts were interrupted as she unclasped her heavy cloak and let it fall to the floor in a great ashen heap around her. “You may kill me now, or you may take me to your queen,” she said simply, and she invited his inspection by turning in a small tight circle with her hands outstretched. A sheath of violet fabric, fine as thistledown, was gathered at one shoulder, and draped across her lithe form, hiding it and revealing it at the same time. “As you can see, I am without weapon or artifice.”

  But not without fear, he realized. Though she appeared relaxed on the surface, the Lord of the Wild Hunt had been stalking and studying prey for untold centuries. Every one of her muscles was tense and energized for fight or flight, and there was the faintest quiver in her breath as she awaited his decision. To feel fear was not cowardice, he knew. And acting in spite of fear was the only true courage.

  Slowly, he lowered the light whip. Though he kept his magic close to the surface, like arrows in a quiver, Lurien’s palm held no threat when he extended his hand to the dragon woman. Accepting his escort, she placed her long elegant fingers lightly upon his broad palm—and something like lightning raced through his blood and was gone almost before he could register the sensation. He studied her face, silently demanding to know what she had done, but the woman seemed completely unaware that anything was amiss. In fact, she wasn’t paying attention to him at all. Her pearled brow was determined, her enticing golden mouth set, as she kept silent pace with him through the high-arched corridors all the way to the very heart of the palace. Again, he admired her courage. A stray snippet of poetry—not fae but human, Goethe perhaps—passed through his mind in deference to the woman at his side: something mighty and sublime . . .