Page 27

KAIRON'S DELIVERY SERVICE

S omething made her look up from the book of magical theory she was reading under the shade of the pergola.

Possibly the book itself. Her love for the written word was being sorely tested by Zorantula’s long-winded prose and assumption that any reader would of course be wholly familiar with Faerie logic.

She’d had to stop every twenty seconds or so to puzzle out what on earth the author meant.

She could have sat next to Mal and bothered him with her questions, since this was his assigned reading material and therefore his fault.

Except that would have defeated the purpose of coming out here to read, which was to avoid him until she’d gotten a better grip on herself.

This morning they’d both accidentally reached for the salt at the same time, and her whole body was still thrumming from the accidental touch.

She rubbed her thumb over one thin bracelet, tracing the subtle engraving.

Even with the dampening effect of the dismae, the bond was getting stronger.

Or maybe it has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with you being alone in a house with the first man physically able to touch you in years .

She grimaced. She didn’t want to believe she was that pathetic, but the evidence wasn’t in her favour.

Thank the Lady for Dagomir’s Sleep Mixture.

At least Mal hadn’t been haunting her inappropriate dreams since she’d tucked the packet of herbs into her pillow.

Wait—there was a reason she’d been pulled from her book: the distant rise and fall of voices, down towards the meadow. She strained to hear what they were saying, but their words were too distant to properly make out, with only nonsensical syllable-fragments occasionally breaking through.

“—typical—”

“—girl—”

She put her book down and stood up. Mal was still in the library—she knew his location unerringly, now—so it wasn’t him out there.

With mingled curiosity and caution pricking through her, she crept around to the front of the house and peered down through the tangle of overgrown everything.

The people in question were gathered around the boulder next to the front gate, where the garden morphed into the meadow. Beyond the wards, but only just.

Apfela was one of the party conversing, leaning carelessly against the stone.

With her were Niressa, thankfully clothed this time, and an enormous but elderly man with curling horns.

As Gisele watched, Apfela let out a throaty laugh in response to something the man said, and Niressa turned slightly away as if she were embarrassed to be seen with either of them.

Apfela waved up at Gisele, taking the decision of whether to announce her presence out of her hands.

Brushing her skirts, she made her way down the path.

Her spine stiffened, bracing for the inevitable hostile reaction, even though she knew her curse wasn’t working like that these days.

Difficult to change the habits of a lifetime.

“Morning, darling,” Apfela said. “We’re waiting for the mail.”

Gisele blinked, sure she’d misheard. “The mail?”

“The mail is a regular delivery of letters and goods,” the old horned man told her in a deep, solemn voice. Both his skin and curly hair were the same acorn shade.

Apfela batted his arm. “She knows what the mail is, Harlang; she’s just surprised that we do, wild fairies that we are.”

“I am not a fairy ,” Niressa spat. “Speak for yourself.”

“Fairy is a human term, but Apfela is of course only making fun,” Harlang explained to Gisele. “Niressa is a nixe.”

“ Nevermourn ,” Niressa the nixe hissed. “I told you I would be known as Nevermourn now.”

Harlang’s brows drew together. “That does not seem very friendly.”

“Exactly! I am not friendly.” Niressa—Nevermourn—flashed sharp white teeth before turning her back on Harlang.

“This is the meadow crowd,” Apfela said. “Folks that live around here. You’ve already met our Nevermourn—going through something of an identity crisis; don’t mind her; she’s young.” Nevermourn’s eyes flashed. “And this is Harlang.”

“Pleased to meet you, my lady,” Harlang said in his lovely resonant voice, inclining his head.

“And the quiet one on his shoulder is Rosenna, from a very respectable family of brownies.”

Gisele tried to hide her surprise. There was a doll-sized figure perched on Harlang’s broad shoulder, dressed in a pristine white apron over a blue gown, complete with neat cap. It seemed rather extraordinary that she hadn’t noticed her until now.

“Good morning, Rosenna,” she said, to rectify the fault.

Rosenna nodded. She had pink-fair skin, large, bat-like ears, and enormous lamp-gold eyes, which absorbed Gisele’s appearance with quiet intensity.

“Rosenna’s family are not associated with a siden right now but could be looking for one, if you take my meaning,” Apfela said.

“It’s Mal you need to convince, not me,” Gisele said.

A murmur of interest went through those gathered. “What’s that you call him?” Apfela asked, leaf-green eyes bright.

“I call him my Malediction, Mal for everyday use,” Gisele explained, somewhat self-conscious about revealing this.

“Do you know what his true name is?” Nevermourn piped up.

“Very cagey fellow,” Harlang agreed. “Not that one should expect the whole of a person’s true name upon casual introduction—or even upon casual acquaintance!—but he won’t give us even a piece of it, nor even share a preferred use-name.”

A spark of Mal’s paranoia flared, but she managed to shrug and say airily, “He has not shared a name with me, but I’m rather fond of my own appellation.”

“Serves the bugger right for cursing you,” Apfela commiserated. “A Malediction indeed.”

Before she could respond, the air shifted.

The mineral smell of water washed over them, underlain with the texture of river pebbles and the thunder of a great waterfall.

From her recent reading, she knew now that the strange scents-that-weren’t-scents of magic were called insignia, but this one didn’t seem to be coming from anybody present.

Everyone was leaning interestedly towards the stream that ran beside the path, but no one seemed much alarmed by either the rising scent of magic or the whirlpool forming there.

The stream had been clear, revealing every fleck of gravel on the bed, but now the waters churned dark and small waves crashed against the banks.

The centre of the vortex deepened, and a horse’s head emerged, followed rapidly by the rest of a horse.

A magnificent black stallion leapt from the stream, landing lightly in the meadow.

He shook out his long mane, which someone had spent a tremendous amount of time styling into many thin braids threaded with silver.

Who knew how that had been achieved, since he didn’t look in the least like a tame horse.

Sunlight gleamed off his wet flanks. Nevermourn gave a small, helpless sigh.

“Yes, yes, you’re very pretty,” Apfela said to the stallion. “But do get on with it. Day’s a-wasting.”

The stallion snorted, and glittering light rose up around him, obscuring his form in misty rainbows.

The light dissipated between blinks, and instead of a stallion, a man with the same deep black skin as the horse now stood in the meadow, a hand on one hip.

He was startlingly beautiful, and the concerned mamas of court would have had apoplexies on the spot.

His tight-fitting leather pants didn’t leave much to the imagination, and his loose white shirt was translucent in its wet state, clinging to his muscles.

“Ah, Apfela, beauty is to be savoured, not rushed.” He tossed his glorious silver-threaded mane of braids, which hung to the middle of his back.

“Beauty is risking a nose-whacking if it doesn’t produce my mail in short order,” Apfela retorted, unimpressed.

He drew a line down his forehead to the tip of his nose. “This? Come close and try it, apple of mine eye.” His voice was pitched low, halfway between seductive and warning.

“This is Kairon,” Harlang helpfully told Gisele. “Don’t worry; they’re always like this. He’ll give us our mail shortly, when they’re done flirting.”

Gisele wondered exactly where Kairon could be hiding mail. He wasn’t carrying a bag, and there did not appear to be any hidden spaces on his body. Heat rose in her cheeks.

Kairon turned to Harlang, smiling. “Don’t pretend you don’t also look forward to my magnificent presence, my soulful poet. But who is this fair lady?”

The compliment, and the accompanying expression of admiration, made her heart race despite herself. Kairon’s eyes were dark as riverstones, framed by thick lashes.

She swallowed. “I am Princess Gisele.”

He held out a hand. “Kairon of the Brook. How do you come to be in Skymallow?”

It wasn’t the done thing in Isshia for men to shake hands with women, but Gisele reached over the low garden wall and did it anyway.

Kairon gasped sharply and dropped her hand like a hot stone. He was staring at her wrist—at the dismae that she’d forgotten to take off. “My lady!”

The rest of the group reacted with similar horror, and the atmosphere cooled in a way that was more than metaphorical, as if clouds had covered the sun.

What had been a merry, easy-humoured group of people changed, and she was suddenly sharply aware that these were fae , wild spirits of forest and field.

“Bastard,” Apfela growled.

Kairon was staring at Skymallow with a hard expression. “I wouldn’t have believed it of him. Do you need help escaping, my lady?” he asked her. “I can take you back to Mortal—I know where a gateway lies.”

“Are you proposing to challenge the Malediction’s claim?” Harlang asked.

Gisele took her hand back, startled. “Is that possible?”

Kairon was frowning. “Malediction?”

“That’s what we’re calling him now,” Nevermourn said. “It’s better than him-who-lives-in-the-house. Do you really want a human pet, Kairon? I’ve heard they’re troublesome.”