Chapter Six

At first, Verve stood there, swaying on the spot as she tried to take in what the woman had just told her. “That’s not possible,” she said, though doubt clawed at her insides. “You weren’t there. I dealt him a fatal blow with my magic.”

Olive shook her head. “My dear—”

“I saw the light leave his eyes. You have to be mistaken. That or time moves more strangely here than I first realized.” Yes, that had to be it. Dacre couldn’t be alive. He would have made himself known by now, attempted to exact revenge upon Verve for attacking him so violently.

“It didn’t make sense at the time, but now I see what he meant,” said the crone. “Lord Starside said, ‘She has it, and there is no taking it from her…yet.’ Then he muttered something about death and farce, but I could not quite make it all out. But, goodness, you’re trembling. Are you all right, milady?”

Verve shuddered. “Don’t call me that.” She leaned over into the bushes and was violently ill. Great tremors wracked her body, and Olive held back her hair and patted her on the shoulder until the worst of it subsided.

“Here, Miss Verity. Sit down a moment and compose yourself.” Olive, though apparently weak herself, took one of Verve’s gloved hands and tugged her away from the puddle of sick. “Do you have any water?”

“No.” Verve lowered herself to the ground and rested her head in her hands. “It can’t be.”

The old woman sighed. “You don’t love him, then?”

Incredulous, she looked up at Olive. “How could I?” The mere thought brought on another wave of nausea. “I should have never left without Fenn.” How worried he must be! Well, though the news of Dacre was unwelcome, at least she now had it…along with the books, which she only just realized she had dropped. Verve retrieved them, still unsteady as her breaths came in deep gasps.

“Fenn?” Olive cried. “But he’s the one you ought to hate. He has tried to kill you ever so many times, Miss Verity.”

Verve laughed without humor. “That is what you’ve been told, Olive, and nothing could be further from the truth.” She shook her head as she heard hurried footsteps in the distance. “I’ve stayed here too long.” Quieting her breathing, Verve could make out it was Tilda running toward them and not the part-elf servant. “Do you wish me to take you back to the mortal realm?”

True fear shone in Olive’s eyes and she drew back a half step. “No, Miss Verity. I beg you not to return me there. I’ve not set foot in Etterhea for nigh sixty years now, I reckon. There’s no one and nothing left for me there.” She slumped, her eyes downcast. “In fact, there is nothing left for me here, either.”

“Don’t say that,” Verve said, attempting to sound kind and not as impatient as she felt.

“No magic,” said Olive, “no home, no person to care for…or care for me in return.” She sighed. “Might I ask one last favor of you, Miss Verity?”

Verve nodded, her thoughts churning. “Of course. But then we really need to get out of here.”

Olive drew in a deep breath. “I want you to kill me.” The two women watched each other for a moment as one took in what the other had said, tension sparking between them.

“You can’t mean that.”

“Do it now. Quickly. If he finds me, he’ll lock me up again.”

Her tone was so desperate, her expression so pitiable, Verve couldn’t help but be moved. But her conscience overrode those feelings at once and she said, “I can’t kill you.”

Olive blanched. “Then at least give me something by which I might do the job.” She looked around and seemed to realize someone was fast approaching them. “Please. I beg you.” She sank to her knees, which creaked beneath her gaunt frame. “Don’t let me continue like this.” With a sob she grabbed at Verve’s shoes.

“Don’t ask me to be responsible for another human’s death. I can’t and I won’t.”

Tilda came into view and slowed her pace considerably, her expression confused as her eyes met Verve’s. “Is everything all right?”

Olive cringed at the sound of the she-fae’s voice. “If you will not end me, then feed me but a crumb of your power and I shall live the remainder of my life out in contented exile.”

“What’s going on?” Tilda demanded, drawing a wicked-looking blade from the sheath at her side. “Who’s with you?”

Verve held up a hand, and the she-fae hesitated. “Just a moment, Tilda.”

“Let it be a quick moment, then.” Though frowning, she replaced her knife and folded her arms across her chest. “I sent the house staff on a wild chase, but they will soon figure out someone housebroke. We have five minutes, seven minutes at the most, before aid is called for and we are pursued.”

The old woman bowed her head. “Please, if you won’t share but a mite of your power, end me.”

Tilda tensed. “Why is this human asking you for power? Don’t you dare give her a drop of it. Humans aren’t to be trusted.”

Verve scowled at her husband’s cousin, her own muscles tensing. Perhaps she had been planning on giving in to the woman’s request, or maybe it was the way Tilda had dared to order her not to, but Verve almost unthinkingly found herself drawing from the store she had taken from the Cunning Blade. Power beaded like a glowing drop of silver blood on her gloved fingertip and she told the crone to lift her head.

At once the old woman did so and her mouth opened, ready to receive the magic.

“No!” Tilda cried.

It was too late. The power dripped from Verve’s finger and landed on Olive’s tongue.

“What have you done?” Tilda had moved toward Verve, her face pale, but Verve at once cast a shield around herself and the crone. The she-fae took a step back, her eyes fixed on Verve’s face.

Tears formed in Olive’s eyes, and she took Verve’s hand and kissed it. “I won’t forget you for this, Miss Verity. It’s more than I deserve.”

As soon as the shield dropped, Tilda was in front of Verve, shaking her. “What are you thinking? You can’t—” She let out a shriek as Verve forgot her own strength and threw the she-fae off, nearly sending her sailing into Olive. With a loud thunk, Tilda struck the tree opposite them and leapt to her feet, dagger in hand.

Fenn’s words echoed in Verve’s mind, “She will harm you if given the chance.” Snarling, Verve drew fire into her hands, and the gloves shriveled with her magic.

Tilda replaced her knife in its sheath with apparent reluctance.

“We must leave at once,” said Olive, rising fluidly, as though no ailment of old age now bothered her. “The nearby estates will have been drawn to that disturbance you two made, and it would be imprudent to tarry long.” She stepped past Verve, who was only just in control, and placed a hand on the hawthorn tree there. “I need a blade.”

Attempting to calm herself and extinguish the flames, Verve imagined the fire retreating beneath her skin as she reached for a feeling of peace within herself. It was hard to come by, but soon the flames were absorbed into her flesh, which glowed as a warning, her anger and fear a dull prickle in her wrists.

Tilda broke eye contact with Verve and stepped wide around her, approaching the tree from the side. “Let me.” She drew her knife, slit her thumb, and stabbed the tree, which began to weep watery sap.

It physically pained Verve to watch the hawthorn suffer, and she decided that next time she would demand that the she-fae negotiate rather than threaten. She stepped forward as a gateway formed and an unfamiliar land came into view through it. “Where is this?”

“A safe place.”

Verve grimaced. “Take me back to Fenn.”

But Tilda shook her head. “You do that yourself. I’m not going anywhere near my cousin again for at least half a century when he’s more likely to have calmed down.” She eyed Verve sideways, as shouts were taken up in the distance. “Ah, seven minutes have come and gone. You would be wise to follow me now, Verity.”

Verve scowled at the sound of her name on the she-fae’s tongue and was about to argue, but the voices were getting closer with every breath. Not wishing to deal with the ten fae she heard approaching, Verve swore and threw herself through the gateway after Olive.

Tilda was through a second later, and the gateway snapped shut behind them. “Come. We don’t want them to torture the tree and learn our location from it. We’d best put as much distance between us and it as we can.”

Indeed, Olive had already taken off at a brisk walk, barely bothering to look over her shoulder. “There are several other hawthorns over here. Perhaps we ought to make a gateway somewhere else.”

“Let me,” said Tilda, pushing ahead of Olive. “I have a hideout in the northern territories.”

Olive stiffened noticeably. “Those lands are full of monsters. Who in their right mind would keep a hiding place there?”

Tilda’s ensuing grin was all teeth. “Someone who doesn’t like to be found. Do you need one of us to carry those books for you?” She nodded at Verve, who was following at a hesitant pace.

“No, I can manage, thank you.” Something was nagging at her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Verve had been eager to forgive Tilda for her threat. The she-fae had been, after all, under someone else’s control. Is she still?

Tilda stabbed a young tree and mingled her silver blood with its sap.

Verve blinked. “Olive, can you make a gateway to….” For a moment she frowned, realizing she didn’t know the name of Fenn’s family estate or how to instruct Olive or a tree to take them there. She looked at Tilda for help, but the she-fae had already disappeared through the gateway and into the mists beyond.

“Miss?” asked Olive, her brow furrowed.

“Bother,” said Verve, hurrying through so she wouldn’t be left behind.

Olive was fast on her heels. “We need to stay close.” Olive startled Verve by taking her arm in her hand and tugging at her to make her hasten her pace. Thankfully, she had just touched her sleeve.

Verve jerked away. “Don’t touch my skin. I’m cursed.”

Olive frowned but did not comment. “If this friend of yours knows a safe place, my guess is it’s a-ways from any hawthorns.” She sighed. “We must have a bit of a trek ahead of us.” Her tone was low, and her gaze darted to and fro, as though she was expecting to be attacked.

Verve listened. The closest noises she could hear were three heartbeats and three sets of steady breaths, and that was the most for five miles. “There’s nothing for a few miles, Olive,” she said as they caught up with Tilda. “You don’t have to worry.”

“For now,” said Olive darkly.

One mile passed and then another, and Tilda led them at a relentless pace. Verve had no trouble keeping up, but she worried for Olive, whose powers she knew did not equal either Tilda’s or her own. But the old woman did not complain and managed to remain in stride for the first five miles.

It was when they had been walking for half an hour that the terrain became more treacherous. Briar and brush seemed to rise up to meet them, snatching at the hems of Tilda’s and Olive’s skirts. Tendrils of these plants reached out toward Verve, came within an inch of her shoes, recoiled with a hiss, and retreated into the mists beyond. The women’s pace now had slowed considerably, and feet, Verve’s included, began to squelch and sink somewhat in the muck and mire.

“How much farther?” Olive surprised Verve by asking. They had been walking silently for what felt like hours now, with no signs of civilization…or monsters, thankfully. Verve wondered about the latter. She knew precious little about Letorheas and what sorts of creatures it held.

Tilda grunted something unintelligible and continued to trudge forward. The sun had reached its highest point in the sky an hour ago and was now quickly on its descent. If they were caught out in the dark, and there really were dangerous animals about, Verve knew her company would not want to make camp.

“You need to either communicate with us, Tilda, or help us find a hawthorn,” Verve snapped. She magicked herself another pair of gloves and then steadied Olive, who had lost momentum and was stumbling into her, causing Verve to nearly drop the books in her arms.

The she-fae shot Verve a dirty look over her shoulder. “There are not any hawthorns for at least seventy miles. You won’t reach any before sundown with your human in tow.”

Verve shared a look with Olive, who said, “We can’t go on like this.”

Tilda stopped suddenly, and Verve almost ran into her. “Just a mile or three more. Keep your human’s maw shut, Verity, or goodness knows what sort of creature she’ll attract.” She looked Verve up and down with a sneer. “And try to put a damper on your magic. It’s giving me a headache.”

Maybe I should have let Fenn blast her to the next world, thought Verve grimly. Taking pity on Olive, she stopped the old crone and squatted in front of her. “Climb on. And don’t touch my skin.”

Olive did not protest or hesitate but at once situated herself on Verve’s back. “You’re too kind, Miss Verity.”

“Maw shut,” said Tilda.

Verve would have shouted something back at the ornery she-fae, but the wind changed direction and she could hear it, the distant cries of what sounded like a pack of wolves. The creatures were more than two miles off, if she was judging correctly. It was hard to tell, what with her hearing being so sensitive.

“Five miles.” Tilda took a shaky breath. “Dire wolves are fast and have excellent hearing, so be quick and be quiet.” She picked up her pace, and Verve followed suit.

The land quickly began to slope upward, and at the top in the distance, shrouded in mist, sat a ramshackle manor house surrounded by magic that Verve could feel prickling at her from yards away.

Tilda took off at a run, and Verve also ran. There were more howls now, coming from all directions.

“Make haste,” said Tilda, no longer trying to keep her voice lowered.

Verve tried to move forward, but she slammed into an invisible wall, which jostled her and nearly threw Olive off her back. Voices filled Verve’s head, wicked hisses and chirrups that made no sense at first, but as they grew in volume and in strength she heard hateful words about a Fire Queen and destruction.

Ice-cold sweat trickled down Verve’s back as she tried to push forward. She made some progress, but not enough. The dire wolves were closing in. “What is this?” she demanded.

Olive slid off her back and ran through the invisible barrier without any apparent difficulty. She paused to watch Verve, her posture tense and her eyes horror-filled. And then, perhaps sensing Verve’s was a lost cause, she turned around and ran toward the foreboding house at top speed.

Gray wolflike creatures with overly long snouts shot out of the mists. They snapped their yellow teeth, snarling and drooling in excess as they circled in toward where Verve struggled.

At once Verve abandoned her attempts to break through the barrier. Tilda turned to watch her, face pinched and mouth forming words Verve could not make out over the howls. A shiver ran up her spine as the creatures came within ten yards of her, then nine, soon six. Do we know if I really am immortal? She wasn’t about to stand around and find out.

Verve reached for calm within herself, as Fenn had taught her to do, in hopes of pushing those emotions into creating something useful such as a sword, a fireball, a mace, a shield, anything to ward off the monsters. But her power was mostly found in her rage, and now there was only fear and it shut down her other emotions entirely.

It would seem hope of creating anything useful was lost. Trembling, Verve threw her free hand out, as though that would stop the dire wolves. The air filled with the aromas of burned sugar and vanilla, a weak flame flickering from her fingertips.

The wolves hesitated. One sat. Two of the sixteen bared their teeth, while others still pawed at the ground. As one unified front, each creature bowed its head, whines slipping out through their open mouths and over their lolling tongues. Then they turned tail and ran off, howling and yipping as though they had just had great fun and were now off to hunt something more appetizing than a scrawny she-fae – or whatever Verve was.

Breathing hard, Verve lowered her hand and collapsed to her knees.

“That was interesting,” said Tilda, coming up behind her. “Why couldn’t you form a shield? You had no trouble warding me off at the estate.”

Verve glowered at the she-fae. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm. Well, lucky you, they must have been someone’s pets at one point.” She held out a hand for Verve, who conjured gloves and rose to her feet.

“You can’t tame dire wolves,” said Olive, climbing out of a tree midway up the hill. “Goodness knows his lordship tried.” She nodded to Verve, her expression pained. “The real question is: why couldn’t she cross through your wards?”

It took Tilda a moment to answer, and when she did, she sounded sheepish. “I set up the wards when I left, and they were meant to keep out enemies. I’m sorry, Verity, but they must think you’re untrustworthy.” She placed her hand on the invisible wall, and it shivered silver and dissolved entirely. “There. I’ll put it back up once we’re all inside. Come.”

Weary, Verve gave the retreating creatures one last look and passed through the space where the ward had been moments prior. The air stank of ginger and clove. Up the remainder of the hill she went, barely taking in her surroundings. The ghost of a house was lit within. Rosebushes bursting with blue blossoms wept onto the balding lawn, unfurling as the sojourners neared, only to rear back at Verve’s approach. If she had been less emotionally spent, she might have been offended.

Tilda threw out her arms in front of the faded crimson door, and the house shuddered open and spilled an eerie light onto the stone slab that sat in front of it. “I didn’t expect to return with company, so please do excuse the mess.”

Verve smiled halfheartedly. Fae aren’t so different from humans, she thought, amused. But when she stepped inside and the door closed and barred itself behind her, Verve saw the she-fae had not been exaggerating the state of affairs. Broken crates had been haphazardly set around the small entryway. Cobwebs floated in the air, and their makers sucked noisily on their catches. Verve shuddered and hastened after Tilda, and Olive fell behind her in deference.

The paint on the walls – was it gray or perhaps blue once? – had peeled in many places, and flakes of it like dust motes swirled around light sconces as the trio passed. “Oughtn’t you restore your wards?” Olive inquired. She ran a hand over the wall and then examined her fingers, which were thick with a layer of oily looking grime, and pulled a face.

“I’ve already done so, Miss…?”

Indeed, Verve heard the wards humming in the near distance. Clove was the predominant scent in the air, and it seemed to fill Verve’s lungs. She gagged once, twice. Then she resolved to breathe through her mouth.

“Everyone calls me Olive,” said the crone. “And your name is…?”

Tilda smirked but didn’t answer. “There’s plenty of food to be had in the pantry, so feel free to see to your needs. I’ll build a fire and put a kettle on.” She gestured toward the small kitchen in the room beyond them to the right, stepped in, and headed straight for the fireplace. The she-fae bustled around, throwing logs into the grate and casting fire in after.

Was Fenn out there looking for them now? How angry he must be.

“Don’t be so gloomy, Verity,” said Tilda, thrusting an iron pot at Olive. “Here. Fill this up to the brim, Olive.”

Wishing to distract herself, Verve set her books down on a side counter and took the vessel from the crone. “Where is the pump?”

Tilda waved her hand and knives jumped to life on the middle counter and began chopping carrots, potatoes, and onions. “Just through there. But that’s servant’s work.” She jerked her head at Olive, who seemed unoffended by the title.

“She’s no one’s servant here,” said Verve and then took the pot through the back door Tilda had indicated. Breathing hard, eyes blurring, Verve stumbled toward the pump and began filling the pot. Up, down, up, down. Weariness settled on her like a cloak as she took in the events of the day and whispered to herself, “What have I done?”