Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

B ryn shook off his cat's fur as soon as he reached the trees where Gil could no longer see him. He stood and stretched, running his hands over the smooth skin of his torso, luxuriating in the teasing caress of the damp, briny air. He arched his back and shook out his shoulder-length black hair, feeling wild, overwhelmed by the opportunities for fun and mischief now that they'd left the prison. From what he'd deduced on the drive into Cutler, it was a tiny seaside village perched on a rocky coast, not unlike those of his homeland. The residents likely made their living on the sea, and they'd be in bed early.

Bryn was only interested in finding one of them: the mouthy gobshite called Grady. He could have some fun with that dumb fud, no doubt. Since he couldn't walk down the road in all his glory, Bryn glamoured himself up some nondescript—but still very flattering—clothes: tight, dark jeans, a sweater with a star on the chest, right where he bore his own white star beneath, a fitted blazer, and shiny black boots. He made his way onto Cove Road and then into town. His hackles rose every time he thought of how Grady had spoken to Gil.

"Nice place ye got here," Bryn sing-songed, "be a shame if something… happened to it. Christ, what a cliché. I can't wait to have a little conversation with you."

He reached what passed for the town, with its post office, small school, bar, and postcard New England houses perched on hills, all of them facing the water and the collection of boats moored there. As he'd suspected, the streets were deserted, at least until he passed the United Methodist Church. Bryn hissed out a strong oath when he recognized the figure in the black habit hovering at the edge of the kirkyard: Brother Wilfred… or what was left of him.

The old Benedictine monk brushed back his pointed hood and fixed Bryn with his usual patient smile. It was a smile that said, "We both know that you've been up to no good, and I'm willing to wait as long as it takes for you to admit it."

"Don't you have anything better ta do with your afterlife than follow me around?" Bryn crossed his arms over his chest. "Shouldn't ye be in heaven after all these centuries?"

"I took responsibility for you when I decided to teach you the error of your wicked ways," the monk said. "I see ye still have not learnt."

"I haven't killed anyone," Bryn protested. "By my count, I have seven more years of refraining before you lift your nasty curse and let me have my full powers back."

"And what about that big lad who was teasing your friend in the prison?"

Bryn examined his fingernails. He liked keeping them a little longer and sharper than most might consider normal, even in this form. It would never do to be defenseless. "Slipped on a wet floor. Cannae be helped, can it?"

Brother Wilfred smirked and hid his hands in his billowing sleeves. "Accidents can happen. Like that prisoner with the peanut allergy. Hard to believe the staff could mix up the meals like that."

"Aye, I'm afraid they're overwhelmed," Bryn said with a shake of his head.

"And what are ye about tonight, then?"

"Can't I go for a walk after spending three and a half years behind bars?" Bryn asked. "Through no fault of my own, I might add."

"You wouldn't be out here looking for a young fellow named Grady, would ye?" the monk asked. "If something were to happen to him, it would very much violate the terms on which we agreed all those years back."

"Oh for— First off, ye need to get yerself a hobby. And second, we never agreed to shite. You worked some of your church magic and made it so I could only change my shape on Fridays. Ye cut me off from my own natural magic. It's an affront to the order of the world."

"A mild punishment," the monk said. "Considering the death and depravity you inflicted on most of the west coast of Scotland. And the islands."

Bryn had had good reason for the things he'd done, or some of them at least, but he didn't want to have the same old argument yet again. Still, he couldn't help muttering, "Most of them deserved what they got."

The monk extracted a hand from his sleeve and held up a single finger. "That is for God to decide."

"I've abided by your terms!" Bryn shouted, and a light flickered on in a house up the street. The monk followed his lead and stepped farther into the misty kirkyard. They both knew it wouldn't do for some poor fishwife to see a ghost monk and a cat demon arguing in front of the old church. "Seven years," Bryn said, just above a whisper. "Or else you're a liar and a hypocrite like most of the rest who follow your faith."

Not taking the bait, the monk inclined his head. "Seven years, so long as you can resist your natural inclinations to shed innocent blood. Be aware that I will be watching. And cait-sith , know that it would be a despicable act to spread your corruption to that young man."

Bryn was about to start shouting again, telling the monk they he didn't know anything about Gil or how Bryn had looked after him, but before he could say anything, the old man was gone, leaving Bryn with a knot of frustration in his gut and not outlet for it. Jesus, he needed a good pumping. He thought about Gil curled up beneath his patchwork quilt, the fire having gone out by now. In the prison, they'd slept cuddled close on a cot barely big enough to hold Gil's large frame. So many Fridays had come and gone, but he'd been unable to take a shape that Gil might find appealing. Bryn just got angrier thinking of all the waste, and he stalked out of the kirkyard and down the road.

A small green sign caught his eye. It said "Cat Alley." It wound up a hill into the woods, and even though Bryn sensed he'd find little excitement in that direction, he couldn't help the call to explore. Soon, with the moon set and the few streetlights far behind, it grew so dark that a human wouldn't be able to see more than a few feet, and Bryn was grateful for his cat's eyes—no matter what shape he might take, he was still the same being, though different forms had their advantages….

A copse of birch trees stood atop a mound up ahead, their trunks wound and twisted with ivy, woodbine, and briars. Their bark shone a soft bright white, and Bryn sensed a thin place in the veil that separated this world from the many others. Those barriers always broke down this time of year, but this was something more, something dangerous.

It didn't take long for Bryn to realize what.

Or rather, who.

A tall, stunning man stepped from between two of the trees, his long, dark hair crowned with a wreath of autumn leaves and branches, his cloak dragging through the bracken behind him. He was beautiful in the stretched-out, angular way of his kind, but when he flashed his sharp teeth in a smile, Bryn wanted to run away with his belly close to the ground. This fae, sometimes called the Lord of Half Twilight, sometimes called the Blackthorn Lord, and sometimes called a dozen other things Bryn couldn't be bothered to remember, was especially powerful as the year turned from light to dark.

"You're not an easy one to find these days, cait-sith," the fae lord drawled, vowels and sibilants drawn out.

"I found myself in an unfortunate situation," Bryn said, flashing a sharp-toothed smile of his own. Cats prostrated themselves before no god, king, or master.

"It has been many years since you've delivered your tithe of human souls to me," the faerie continued. "It almost seems as though you've been avoiding me as well."

"Perish the thought," Bryn said. It was no good telling the Blackthorn Lord that if he killed a human, that pain-in-the-bawbag monk would never lift his curse and allow him to transform freely again. Old Blackie wouldn't care.

"Then I can expect your tithe by Summer's End?"

Fuck. How would he manage to collect all those souls—or any souls at all—by Halloween? It wasn't like he could stand around waiting for people to fall over dead.

"Because surely you recall that by Samhain, Faerie must deliver its tithe to Hell." The Blackthorn Lord leaned closer to Bryn. He smelled of crushed maple leaves, ripe apples, and burnt twigs, but when he turned his head, shadow gathered in his eye sockets and beneath his pronounced cheekbones, revealing the death's head below his marble-white skin… the ultimate culmination of Summer's End. "If I cannot fill that quota with human souls, I have no choice but to fill it from my own people. And our numbers are so diminished already. Surely you understand."

"Oh, absolutely," Bryn said.

"Then I will expect at least a portion of what you owe. You used to be so good at this. I would hate for you to have to fill the tithe yourself."

"That would be unfortunate," Bryn agreed. "I will see what I can do."

"Good." The fae lord turned with a dramatic swish of his long cloak. He paused, looked over his shoulder, and added, "You won't find it so easy to elude me in the future. I will be watching you." Then he stepped between the birch trees and was gone.

"Fuck me, maybe I should have stayed in the prison," Bryn said, sinking down on his haunches in the dewy grass. He fingered the empty leather pouch around his neck that he'd ensorcelled long ago to hold the unfortunate—but, he maintained, often deserving—spirits he harvested. He didn't see a way to fill the fae lord's tithe if he couldn't reap the souls himself… which he couldn't do with old Brother Wilfred crawled halfway up his arse. Luckily, he was a cat, the cleverest of creatures to grace this world or any of the others, and he would figure something out.

He had to.