Storm Warned (The Grim Series) Read online

  It still embarrassed her that he had seen her naked, but not as much as it would have in her earlier life. Though the Fair Ones had a weakness for fine and colorful clothing—the better to display status and power—nudity raised few eyebrows in the Nine Realms, and neither did uninhibited coupling. Caris had thought herself perfectly well acquainted with sex, thanks to being raised on a farm. As it turned out, what she knew was only the most basic mechanics of the act. And that was nothing compared to the artful intimacies of the Tylwyth Teg. Knowing their shallowness and their envy of human emotion, however, she wondered if perhaps they had no choice but to craft such elaborate lovemaking in order to feel anything at all.

  And what would it be like to be in Liam’s arms?

  Caris left both the thought and the mirror abruptly. Her body felt just a little stiff as she crossed the room, but she welcomed every ache and pain from the previous day’s labors, every evidence that she was mortal. And blessed whatever powers had given her a second chance at life.

  That life included a wealth of new experiences too. Caris washed slowly, luxuriously, chuckling every now and then over the ridiculous opulence of having a bathroom just for her very own self. And indoors no less! The shower was indeed a “brammer of an invention,” just as Ranyon had described it to her—she’d witnessed its development over the decades of course, was aware that it had adjustable hot and cold water, but she’d never actually experienced such a splendid thing. Great fluffy towels, fragrant soaps, lotions, and more—an embarrassment of riches surrounded her. Morgan had kindly explained which bottles were meant to be used for washing her hair—and in what order—and Caris was amazed by the exotic aromas and silky textures of the contents.

  After such grand pleasures, she sat on the bed to indulge in a much simpler enjoyment: brushing out her long hair. “Black as a raven’s glossy wing,” according to her father, who had often said her mother’s hair had been the same. It was also full of unruly waves—the exact opposite of most of the Tylwyth Teg. Thinking of the Fair Ones led to a whim: Caris decided to braid her hair around her head twice in a style that a few of the Gypsy women had worn. The Kale had always prided themselves on being a free people, and she was feeling gloriously free herself.

  She opened the finely built door of the closet, where she had carefully hung the spare clothing Morgan had shared with her, and she was particularly grateful for the fine pair of shoes on the floor. They were white and blue, and even silver, in color—imagine that!—and strangely supple, yet strong. At first she hadn’t wanted to wear such fashionable things in a farmyard, but then Morgan pointed out the scuffs and scrapes, and the dried dirt caked into the soles of the shoes. “They’re definitely for work,” she’d said.

  Well, there was no lack of work to do on a farm. And Caris didn’t mind one bit—it was grand, really, to have purpose again. She was about to close the closet door when something on the top shelf caught her eye. While the main part of the closet was empty, save for the handful of odd little plastic hangers that held her clothing on a rod, above it was a different story. She pulled the light cord to a single small bulb high overhead, illuminating old bundles of files, shoe boxes with the corners of photographs sticking out of them, stacks and stacks of books and albums too. But resting above it all was a narrow case of some sort—and if she stood back far enough, she could just barely see that the top of case was bowed outward by design.

  In the end, she had to borrow the chair from the little writing desk by the still-dark window in order to reach the curiosity, but her hand trembled as soon as she touched the smooth ivory leather. Bound by dark-brown straps of heavy leather and fastened with bronze clasps, it looked like a tiny cês dillad, complete with a hinged handle. She used it to draw the diminutive suitcase to her. Even after she climbed down, Caris held it tightly with both hands. It isn’t. It can’t be, the sensible side of her scolded. Goodness, you’re getting excited over nothing. It doesn’t even look like your old case. “But it is the right size,” she whispered. “You know it is.” She was shaking all over now. Finally she laid the fine case on the bed, took a deep breath and unlatched it.

  The ffidil was firmly nestled in soft white velvet like a shining chestnut still in its hull. Caris’s heart pounded in her ears, she could feel a hot flush of color rise from her breasts to her throat, and she had to keep reminding herself to breathe—and breathe again. Flawless varnish gleamed golden yellow on the fine-grained wood of the instrument’s top. Spruce, most likely. Her fingers automatically brushed along the strings, and she nodded as she felt the give in them. They should be loose when a fiddle is stored, she thought. Just as the strings of her grandfather’s fiddle, her fiddle, had been loose when she first found it in the old trunk . . . The wooden pegs were cool and smooth between the pads of her fingers, and it was all she could do not to turn them.

  Suddenly, without forming the intent in her mind, those fingers curved around the slender neck of the elegant instrument and lifted it from its bed. Turning it over, she gasped—the back was grandly striped, glowing like a gold-and-mahogany tiger. Her fiddle had been striped too, though more subtly, made of what a Gypsy had told her was flamed maple. She marveled at the vivid pattern, ran her hands over every inch of the fiddle, and then hugged it to her like a lost babe. Without warning, two centuries’ worth of raw emotions exploded within her small frame—joy and grief, elation and bereavement, vindication and loss. Shaking from the force of it, she slid to the floor, helpless to fend off the storm of tears bearing down on her like raging floodwaters. She had the presence of mind to do one last thing, and that was to yank the quilt from the bed and bury her face in it to muffle her sobs.

  Dawn finally brought an end to the catharsis. Thoroughly spent, Caris lay on the floor upon the rumpled quilt, still clutching the precious fiddle like a child holding a doll for comfort. Crying is such a miserable business. Her head throbbed, her eyes were swollen, and she still shuddered with each breath. The unexpected purge had wrung her out completely. Sleep was what her body needed now, but her spirit needed something more.

  She needed to draw music from the exquisite instrument in her arms.

  In the bathroom, she winced at her reflection in the mirror. She splashed cold water on her face, then held wet cloths to it until some of the swelling went down and the redness retreated. Some tendrils of hair had worked loose from her braided crown, but she wove them in as securely as she could. Finally she felt presentable. With luck she would be the only one awake, but if not, then at least there wouldn’t be anything glaringly wrong with her. She glanced out the windows and realized it would be cool outside. She wrapped the quilt around her like a shawl, tucked the ivory leather case beneath its folds, and tiptoed into the hallway.

  The door to Morgan’s room was still closed. There was no sound from downstairs, so Jay must be still asleep in the back guest room. Liam had spent the night on the couch exactly where he’d collapsed—it just hadn’t seemed like a good idea to move him. Carefully, Caris crept down the stairs, hoping against hope that they wouldn’t squeak and wake him. At the bottom, she paused. Shouldn’t she ask permission before she borrowed the fiddle? After all, it must belong to his aunt or uncle . . .

  A light snore interrupted her thoughts, and Caris peered over the couch at the sleeping Liam. He was a strong man, but he’d certainly spent every bit of his strength yesterday. It would do him no good to disturb him. Instead, she pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, then gently leaned over and kissed his badly bruised forehead. “Cysga’n dda,” she whispered. Sleep well.

  He didn’t wake, but she could swear he smiled a little.

  Meanwhile, the need to play was beating at her like the wings of the owl that had once gotten itself shut in her sheep barn. It needed to escape, it had to escape, it would escape. She hurried on. Her music was rapidly brimming to the surface—would it, too, explode from her as terribly as the tears had done?

  Leavin
g by the back door, she saw the porch swing empty and wondered where Ranyon might be. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to coax him to come in the night before. She’d hated the notion of the little ellyll sleeping outside, especially after Jay had told her that Ranyon lived with his human friend Leo, where he had his very own room and his own bed. In the end, the little man had simply patted her shoulder and confided to her that he just didn’t need to sleep as much or as often as a mortal: “’Tis more for the pure enjoyment of it, dontcha know. That grand feeling of lying down in cozy sheets and lettin’ yerself sink into a soft mattress. Most nights, though, once Leo and Spike are both snoring up a storm, I go back downstairs and work a mite on my own little tasks.”

  She wondered what “little tasks” he’d undertaken while she slept. Wherever the ellyll was, that giant sandwich he’d eaten last night had surely worn off by now. Caris reminded herself to take him a bite of breakfast before she started the milking.

  But before the milking, there would be music.

  “Enlarging a way to such a size has never been attempted!” a kelpie gasped. The horselike creatures were often found gasping during the assembly. The air in and around the palace was pure, as unsullied as crystal, but Kelpies were designed for the fluid environment of their native rivers.

  Still, Lurien knew it would be a mistake to assume they were any less deadly on land. He kept a watchful eye on the creatures, as he did all of the envoys in attendance. On the first day, only a well-timed snap of his light whip had prevented a pair of coblynau from being bitten in half by an ill-tempered basilisk. Since then, all the battles in the great garden courtyard had been waged with words alone—but that could change in an instant.

  “The magic is ancient,” said Gwenhidw. “But it exists. For the sake of our peoples, we must not be afraid to try what is new only to us.” Though enormous in scope, her plan was simple enough in concept. The ways were the portals between dimensions. They linked places within the realms, connected the fae kingdom with the mortal plane, and even bridged the continents. If the Great Way leading to Tir Hardd were successfully made larger, the territory could be seeded with enormous samplau—bits and pieces of every environment from every corner of the Nine Realms. Infused with fresh energy from the new land, the samplau would flourish and expand until the kingdom was replicated, and every fae creature had what it needed to thrive in their new home.

  The seventy-nine envoys had been deadlocked over this issue for days and nights on end. It rubbed Lurien’s patience raw at times, but then, he was a hunter, not a diplomat. He would utilize any weapon to defend his queen, but he did not command words the way he controlled magic. Fortunately, no one was more masterful than Gwenhidw herself at tact and discretion. Her insightful negotiations were pointed and shrewd, yet their true effectiveness lay in the fact that she genuinely cared about each and every one of her subjects.

  Including, apparently, the Draigddynion.

  The Lord of the Wild Hunt still hadn’t forgiven the queen for deceiving him. She’d known he’d never agree to let the dragon men into the castle, not after they’d slain the king and tried to kill her all those years ago. Not after the recurring participation of the Draigddynion in the many conspiracies that had plagued the Nine Realms ever since. Even as he seethed, however, he couldn’t help but admire the clever trick Gwenhidw had played on him, and the sheer brilliance of her direct invitation to the new ruler of the dragon territories.

  Even as he thought about her, Aurddolen’s amber gaze fastened upon him for a moment. Then she strode boldly to stand in the midst of the bickering delegates. “Peoples of the Nine Realms, hear me now. The Great Way can be enlarged. Her Grace is correct—the spells required are old, older than the realms themselves, but they exist. As a member of the royal house of Draigddynion, I too have knowledge of these spells, and the ability to use them,” she declared. “But as the queen has pointed out many times, such a massive undertaking will require every one of us to work together. I myself stand before you as a testament of our ability to put aside our differences for the greater good and to act as one.”

  He fully expected the room to erupt into argument as usual, to noisily end in yet another stalemate. But this time something was different. There was a thoughtful silence . . . and it was rapidly followed by a clapping and thrumming that swelled until it bounced off the walls of the courtyard. It would seem that at long last, they had reached an accord. The queen’s bold plan would go forward.

  The next time Aurddolen looked his way, Lurien inclined his head.

  Caris already knew where she wanted, needed, to go. A stand of trees grew at the base of the ridge nearest the farm, and the high hillside at their back had sheltered them from the storm’s violence. Even from the house she could see the high inward curve of gray rock above the treetops—and instinct told her that her music would flow through the space and fold back on itself, a tidy circling of sound. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen her favored spot on the mountainside above her father’s farm, all those years ago.

  Caught up in memories, she had crossed both the farmyard and the field east of the barn before she knew it. Stepping from the plowed earth and into the thick brush was a little scary. Ranyon had said the anghenfil was gone, and no one expected the outlaw hunt to return, not yet. Still, her heart beat faster with trepidation, as much as excitement. Alert for any sign of danger, she saw no peculiar shadows, heard no strange horns. There was only a thick grouping of trees gathered around rocks and fallen logs, leaning over a small stream like women visiting over the stalls of vegetables on market day. A few bursts of tiny yellow flowers dotted the area like sunshine dappling the ground. It felt good here, friendly, and clean, like the clean magic the ellyll had spoken of.

  A tall mossy rock, long ago fallen from the hillside above, made a fine table. One-handed, she pulled the quilt from her shoulders and spread it over the stone before she relinquished the precious leather case from her grasp. She freed the bow from its clever little drawer, then unclasped the main compartment. Her breath caught as she viewed the exquisite fiddle in the early morning light. “Come here, fy un hardd, my beautiful one,” she crooned.

  The instrument was familiar and yet strange, as she worked patiently to bring it into tune. “We have to get acquainted, you and I,” she said, and drew a long experimental note with the bow, then another—and another. The sound seemed to fill the forest around her, and just as she’d hoped, the hill sang it back to her, full and rich. That was the moment she stopped being afraid. Afraid she’d forgotten how to play, afraid that it wouldn’t be the same, that somehow, her music—and with it, who she truly was—wouldn’t come back.

  All her fears fell away from her, time fell away, the world itself fell away, as she began to play . . .

  FOURTEEN

  The song . . . The song in the woods . . . The song pushed at him hard, rattled long-locked doors, pulled at latches, yanked open drawers and flung aside shutters . . . The song and the storm were one, and evil itself was coming, something dark and monstrous on feet that didn’t touch the ground . . .

  Liam’s eyelids snapped open, but it took several seconds for him to realize he was lying on the living room couch. His own living room and his own couch, yet the familiar surroundings didn’t reassure him at all. Nothing was comforting in the wake of such a nightmare—and even the beautiful part that had preceded it had shaken him to his very core. For a long moment, he remained motionless, alert and listening, but heard nothing. He relaxed a fraction, but part of him continued to be on guard.

  It didn’t help that the sun was in the wrong place. It should be late afternoon, maybe dusk at most. Yet there was a glowing pinkish orb just above the horizon, framed by the east-facing window. The good thing was that the light wasn’t yet bright enough to stab Liam’s eyeballs. The bad thing, that he didn’t remember falling asleep, didn’t remember anything before the dream-turned-nightmare in fact, except th
e upchucking part.

  Great way to make an impression on a pretty woman.

  Small wonder Caris Dillwyn was nowhere to be seen. But then, he couldn’t see very much from his vantage point, and he wasn’t about to make the mistake of sitting up just yet. Just the act of moving his eyes reminded him sharply of why he was sacked out like a drunk on the couch, although the throbbing headache was like no hangover he’d ever had in his entire life.

  Maybe I’m not really awake. Obviously there hadn’t been time to look around when he came home from the hospital. But the last time Liam had been in his living room, the better part of a chestnut tree had speared the wall right where Brewster the Mooster used to hang. The tree was gone now, and a sheet of plastic-wrapped plywood was fastened neatly over the area. He didn’t know how his friends had managed to look after that so quickly, but he could accept that it was possible. As for the rest of the room? It was definitely causing him to question his state of consciousness.

  Like many old houses with high ceilings, the windows were tall and narrow. The living room boasted six single-hung sashes, and every one had been destroyed. He’d heard them break during the storm, and he’d witnessed their remains the next morning. Yet now, the panes were not just intact but gleaming—which was a miracle all by itself, since he knew for a fact that they hadn’t been cleaned once since Aunt Ruby lived here. He was no slob, but hey, windows.

  Further study revealed no visible glass shards littering the floor. There were no leaves on the rug. The curtains weren’t wet, dirty, or shredded. What the hell?