4. Yarrow

Yarrow steps through the rift, axe in hand. One moment he's Elsewhere, and the next, he's in the path of a spell.

Shit. Haelwen wasn't kidding about the havoc. Or that the talisman would guide Yarrow directly to the shapestealer's location.

The intrusion of foul magic is unmistakable, like grimy mud slipping down the back of his neck. But nothing happens. The spell must have failed.

Whirling in the curse's direction, Yarrow takes in the situation. The rift narrows behind him but doesn't fully close, and its golden light illuminates the scene. Deep night blankets the human realm above a chaotic festival. A tent burns nearby. Scores of humans yell drunkenly in the distance, but there are only two figures within twenty feet of Yarrow.

The one to the left must be Moriath, guised as a human witch. That's one of the forms Nevander described. To Yarrow's right, an actual human—probably—huddles on the ground. He's unremarkable at first glance, except for one golden eye.

Another spell burns through the air. Snarling, Yarrow tears away from that distracting eye. His axe meets the spell in midair Magic sizzles against the heavy blade, dispersing into nothing.

That's one power Yarrow inherited from his fae mother. His weapon is imbued with his own magical essence, far stronger and more powerful than ordinary steel.

"Hey, little human," Yarrow calls out, keeping one eye on Moriath. "I'd recommend running away now."

The human staggers to his feet, long robe falling off one shoulder. He stumbles backwards—then collapses with a cry, clutching his stomach. Hurt, maybe. Another curse might have gotten him. But the human isn't Yarrow's problem.

Yarrow's own stomach twists in discomfort. This realm's atmosphere must not agree with him. He'd better finish this fast.

Thankfully, Haelwen never said this was a secret mission. If she wants this covered up from the humans, she'd best assign someone else. Subtlety isn't Yarrow's specialty.

Moriath circles around on creaky legs. Then his form shifts with a sickening ripple of flesh. Transforming into shadow, he nearly disappears against the smoke and the smoldering tent.

Then he reforms as a fae. Tall, lean, with deep copper eyes. A longsword gleams in the light of the rift and fire.

Yarrow spares a thought for the fae whose likeness stands before him, and the original human witch too. Shapestealers aren't like ordinary creatures who can change form or disguise themselves. They gain their forms and power by killing other beings. The only power they keep between each form is that of transformation—they have to change shapes to use their full arsenal of magic.

The human witch and the copper-eyed fae are dead. Only their killer remains.

Time to stop this parasitic shadow. Yarrow lunges, axe swinging. His furious essence sharpens the blade.

Moriath dodges, trying to come up under Yarrow's guard. Exactly what Yarrow wanted. Hooking Moriath's blade on the smaller curve of his axe, Yarrow yanks hard.

Hissing curses, Moriath barely keeps hold of his blade. He staggers back, arms trembling. Then he steadies.

Fuck. Moriath has good control over the fae's magic.

"Where the fuck did you come from?" Moriath gasps, indignant.

"Smart move, taking this form," Yarrow taunts. "Your witchery was fucking useless. That curse didn't even do anything."

Alarmingly, Moriath grins. "Oh, but it did, though you've ruined it. But there's an easy way to fix a ruined spell."

Yarrow hefts his axe. He still can't feel the spell, but yeah, better to take care of this, just in case. There are two easy ways to break a curse—kill the subject, or kill the caster.

His next swing sends Moriath's sword flying. Yarrow moves in for the throat, but at the last moment, the shapestealer ducks. Strands of severed hair float in his wake.

"You're as much use as teats on a fish," Yarrow says, triumph spurring him forward?—

Moriath's sword meets his blow.

Fuck.

Rocking back, Yarrow barely dodges the flowing blade. His concentration sharpens in silence. The dropped sword was a fucking glamour, a damned powerful one. This shapestealer is far more of a problem than Yarrow expected.

But Moriath doesn't press his advantage. He pauses, head tilted. "Looks like we have company. Let's reconvene later. Bring the boy."

Yarrow doesn't give a shit about the other humans approaching. He circles with his opponent, keeping between the shapestealer and the human who—for whatever stupid human reason—hasn't run away. Whatever Moriath wants with him can't be good.

Then Moriath dives for the rift.

"You fucking cankershroom," Yarrow growls, surging forward—then doubles over.

His axe thuds to the ground. The pain claws so sharply, Yarrow expects hot blood when he clutches his stomach. Like he's been gored by a boarbear. But his leather jerkin is intact, as is the skin beneath it. The agony twists from the inside.

Behind Yarrow, the fae-eyed human cries out. His voice echoes through Yarrow's aching skull, and Yarrow knows this is magic.

The curse. Moriath's witchery worked, and it has something to do with the human.

Before Yarrow's stinging eyes, the portal closes.

Fuck. He'll have to open another one, and spirits only know where the Moriath's fucked off to.

That's a problem for later. First, Yarrow has a human to interrogate.

Each movement hurting, Yarrow retrieves his axe. With a thought, it disintegrates from his hand and reappears as a weight on his back. Yarrow staggers across the scrubby field, one painful step at a time. The human slumps on his knees, near a rickety wooden fence. He's huddled in on himself, hiding his magic eye behind dark hair.

Yarrow is twenty feet from the human when the pain vanishes. Its sudden absence leaves a cold emptiness inside him.

"What the fuck is going on?" Yarrow demands.

Gasping, the human falls to his hands. Then a shudder drives him to his feet, and a knife trembles in his grasp. "Stay back!"

"I don't intend to hurt you." Yarrow grits his teeth. The anger in his voice and the magic axe on his back may make that hard to believe. "I just need to figure out what the shapestealer did to us."

"Stay back!" the human warns again, his voice thin with terror.

"I'll stay back," Yarrow says, trying to look unthreatening. Failing, by the way the human blanches when Yarrow holds out his hands. "If you don't run."

The human immediately turns and runs.

He gets three long steps closer to the fence before crumpling to his knees. His wrenching cry echoes the curse clawing through Yarrow's insides.

A fucking binding spell.

"I said not to run," Yarrow says raggedly, and lurches closer.

The pain vanishes. The human sways on his knees, then tumbles sideways.

Yarrow waits a moment, in case it's a trap. He needs to get out of here soon, given the distant cries of, "Call the guard!" and "Call the witch!"

But for now, this little expanse of dirt and dry grass is peaceful as a haven. The human remains motionless as Yarrow approaches. Bad for interrogation, but good for the not-running-away thing.

Yarrow crouches beside the human. "Hey, wake up."

No response. The human's sprawled mostly on his side, limbs tangled in his torn robe. His cheek presses into the dirt.

Yarrow turns him carefully by the shoulder, onto his back. The human is so tiny—most fae are smaller than Yarrow too, but humans are weak. Fragile. The human's hair falls away, revealing a soft, round face, a button nose, and full lips. Dark powder smudges around his long eyelashes. Surprisingly attractive for a human, now that he's asleep and peaceful instead of awake and petrified.

"Wake up." Yarrow taps the human's face. "We need to talk."

Another tap. No response.

Yarrow can't stay here, but the curse keeps him within twenty feet of this attractive, fragile human who's—understandably—terrified of him. Which leaves just one solution.

"Court life better be fucking worth it," Yarrow mutters, and grabs the human's knife. Brave man, brandishing this little dagger against Yarrow's axe.

He pushes the human's robes open, but finds only a coin purse on his belt. Abandoning that exploration quickly, in case the human wakes up and misunderstands, Yarrow moves on. Nothing but sleeves on the human's forearms, either.

There. The scabbard is in the human's boot. Yarrow sheathes the knife carefully, then gathers the human into his arms. Fuck, it's a good thing Yarrow's not a court fae yet—he's breaking so many rules. Stealing a human without proper cause. Switching changelings is one thing. This is just theft.

But he doesn't have a fucking choice.

The man is lightweight, though that's not important. Yarrow's very strong. He only needs one arm to hold the human up, leaving his other hand free to sketch a symbol in the air.

"I offer…" Yarrow mentally rifles through his options, as the distant voices grow more certain. More aggressive. Yarrow hasn't prepared an offering to travel Elsewhere, because he intended to use the same rift he came through. "I offer a moment of my company."

The night air splits in two, and Yarrow steps out of the world.