Chapter 14

"The minstrel fell," I sang under my breath as footsteps clomped toward me. "But the foeman's chain could not bring that proud soul under."

Whicker let out a loud whinny in happy greeting.

"The harp he loved ne'er spoke again," I half-growled even more quietly as I tried to contain my anger. "For he tore its chords asunder."

The footsteps halted. I moved the brush across Whicker's back, refusing to look up.

"Why are you here?" My voice was soft. My temper was not.

Whicker's head bobbed as he greeted the druid. Reacquainted with his equine pal, Zak ducked the crossties to join me. "If you didn't want me to show up, you should've given me your number."

Reluctantly, I shifted toward Whicker's flank to make room for the druid beside me. He selected a wide-toothed comb, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he combed the horse's mane. He looked exactly as he had nine hours ago, but more tired and dirty.

"You stink of sweat," I informed him.

"You stink of horse."

"The horse stinks of horse."

"Which means you do too." He worked the comb through a knot, the thick muscles in his arm flexing with the movement. "I found two more dead animals, but no more dead fae. I talked to a few, but they didn't know anything. The locals who are aware of the killings have either hidden or fled."

"What about the kelpie? He seemed to know something."

"Balligor was probably bullshitting to lure you in close enough to eat, but I did try to talk to him again. He's avoiding me, and I'm not desperate enough to force him to show himself." Zak was quiet for a moment, the motions of his comb slowing. "I've never seen anything like this, and I deal with darkfae on a regular basis. An entire fae populace scared of the same thing…"

I ran the brush over Whicker's rump. "But what thing? What kills animals and fae by making them drop dead? What makes fae turn aggressive? What killed my coven leader without entering her house?"

"That's assuming no one entered her house. A fae wouldn't use the door." He resumed combing. "If this is a fae killer, I can't find any sign of it, even around the bodies."

I circled Whicker's rump to brush his other side. "Is tracking a fae possible?"

"There are a few methods, but none of them are working."

"So you have a bunch of dead bodies and no leads whatsoever."

He growled something under his breath. "My leads are the bodies. I've marked them on your map, but I'm not sure how accurate it is. Translating the locations from my memory to the map is difficult."

"Show it to me."

"If you want."

I finished brushing Whicker, then returned him to his stall. As I latched the door, Zak picked up a black, dirt-smudged backpack leaning against the wall and slung it over his shoulder. I hadn't noticed him carry it in, and he hadn't had it at the crossroads.

My attention turned to the tack room door, which had a table we could use for viewing the map… but there were no chairs in there. My legs were aching from a long day of exertion and I didn't want to stand anymore.

With a silent sigh, I waved at the druid. "This way."

He followed me outside and waited while I locked up the stable. He still didn't speak when I led him around the back, through the rear door, up the stairs, and into my small suite.

"You live here?"

I instantly regretted my choice to reveal where I slept at night. "Give me the map."

"Where—"

"Give me the map," I repeated sharply, "and take a shower before you sit on my furniture."

His eyebrows climbed. He opened his backpack's front pouch, handed me the folded map, then kicked off his boots and went straight into the bathroom, taking his bag with him. The lock clicked.

I waited for the water to start up before heading into my room to change—my clothes did smell like horse, and I'd need to shower again before bed. Pulling on sweats and a baggy t-shirt, I returned to the main room and lowered myself onto the sofa with a tired sigh.

Just as I was spreading the map out on the coffee table, a hawk shimmered through the wall and landed on the sofa's arm with a sweep of snow-white feathers.

The druid is in your bathroom,Ríkr remarked, folding his wings.

I studied the red notations on the map. "I know."

And a lovely black eagle is perched on the roof.He clicked his beak. I lavished her with compliments, but her response was not favorable.

A number and date accompanied each mark on the map. Zak had been thorough. "How did she respond?"

She suggested I prostrate myself in the dirt before speaking with her, as that was my proper place.

"Hm."

To be fair,he mused, contorting his neck to preen his back feathers, she is well powerful enough to join a court, though not enough to rule one.

"Yet she's a druid's familiar. Seems like a demotion."

Not a familiar, dove.He uncontorted himself to fix me with his crystal-blue stare. The druid's relationship with the Lady of Shadow is quite different.

"The Lady of—"

The shower shut off with a clunk, and I abandoned my question for another time. Ignoring the rustles and clatters from the bathroom, I focused on the map and the scattered markings that dotted the mountainside. The map on Arla's computer screen had been marked as well, and I canted my head as I tried to remember where the icons had been. I'd only glimpsed it for a moment.

With a click of the lock, the bathroom door opened and Zak emerged, wearing a clean sleeveless shirt and jeans—both black—with his damp hair roughly combed back from his face as though he'd dragged his fingers through it. His backpack hung from one hand.

Eyeing his face, I demanded, "Did you use my razor?"

"I used my own razor." He ran a hand over his smooth jaw. "I borrowed your toothbrush, though."

"What?"

"I'm joking." He hefted his bag. "Do you have laundry in here?"

"In the closet."

He opened the closet near the entryway and started loading his garments into the washer—not only what he'd taken off before showering, but at least one more change of clothes. Did that bag contain all his supplies for his mission to earn fae gifts?

I waited to see if he'd ask how the machine worked, but he figured it out. As it started up with a hum, he closed the closet door, set his backpack against it, and strode toward me.

Watching him approach—over six feet of broad shoulders, muscular arms, and dangerous magic—I wondered why the hell I'd brought him into my space. This was my sanctuary, and it'd already been invaded once today. I didn't know how to handle a second invasion, even one I'd invited in.

Good evening, druid,Ríkr crooned silkily. Welcome to my witch's humble abode.

Zak's eyes narrowed. He didn't buy the shapeshifter's sincerity any more than I did.

May you find it rife with female temper and sharp blades,Ríkr concluded with a taunting tilt of his avian head.

"I appreciate the well wishes," Zak replied dryly, sinking down beside me. "Do you care to share a name?"

Ríkr,my familiar offered. By the way, you smell luscious.

"I get that a lot. From fae," he added pointedly, as though I might've forgotten I'd recently informed him that he stank. Post-shower, he smelled like pine-scented soap that reminded me of mountain forests on cool, crisp evenings.

Ríkr shuffled his talons on the sofa's arm. I suppose your dark lady on the rooftop would be opposed to sharing a taste of your power.

"I'm very sure she would. So would I."

Annoyed at my familiar's blatant schmoozing, I cut in, "Are all the bodies marked on here?"

"Yes." He leaned back against the cushions. "Figure out anything?"

"Lines."

He blinked. "What do you mean, ‘lines'?"

I pointed to several animal deaths. "These bodies all fall near an old trail that was closed two years ago after a landslide."

As he sat forward for a closer look, I indicated another few bodies. "I think there's a streambed here. And here—these ones are in a ravine. I've seen it from Munroe Lake Trail."

"So…" He stared down at the map. "You think the killer traveled along these paths, slaughtering all the animals they encountered along the way?"

I nodded. "These routes are easier than cutting through the forest. And all of them move down the mountain, suggesting the killer was traveling away from the summit. That makes more sense than zigzagging aimlessly across the slopes."

"Maybe the killer isn't lurking around the crossroads but coming out of it. They appear from the crossroads, go on a killing spree, and retreat into the crossroads again."

"Seems plausible." I tugged on a lock of hair hanging over my shoulder. "The lines are less clear here and here"—I pointed to individual clusters—"but there could be more bodies you didn't find."

Zak said nothing, and I glanced at him. Brows drawn down, elbows braced on his knees, he was studying the map intently. With a quiet thought to tell me he was going to keep an eye on the eagle fae outside, Ríkr took flight, disappearing through the wall.

"Do you see the other pattern?" I asked the druid.

"Yeah," he muttered. "On each ‘line,' there are multiple animal deaths, but only one fae death."

I combed my fingers through another lock of my hair, then absently split it into three pieces and started braiding it. One fae death per "excursion" by the killer. Did that mean the killer was seeking out those fae, or was it coincidence? And, I noticed, the fae body was usually the farthest point from the summit. Did the killer return to the crossroads after murdering a fae? Why? What did it all mean?

"What song is that?"

I started. "Huh?"

His gaze slid across my face. "You were humming."

The tune of the old Irish ballad I'd been singing to Whicker was still running through my head. I shoved to my feet. "We're done here. You can get out now."

He leaned back, head resting on the cushions. "You were actually semi-pleasant for a while there."

I turned back to the sofa and leaned over him. Bracing my hand on his shoulder, his body heat warming my cool fingers, I smiled. "Don't misunderstand, druid. I'm working with you to find this killer, not because I enjoy your company." Bringing my face closer to his, I made sure he couldn't miss my animosity. "Everything you are is everything I utterly loathe."

"And what is that?"

"A powerful man who abuses those weaker than him."

I didn't see his hand move, but suddenly, his fingers were clamped around my wrist.

"Then what are you, witch?" he asked, his voice dark and dangerous. "When you wanted to cut that farmer's teeth out, were you a switchblade angel dispensing righteous justice? Why are you allowed to pass judgment on others, but I'm not?"

He shoved my hand off his shoulder and stood. Trapped between the sofa and coffee table, we faced each other, toe to toe, glaring into each other's eyes. His palm pressed against my upper thigh, pushing on the switchblade hidden in my pocket, silently telling me he knew it was there.

"I've never pretended to be the good guy," he growled softly. "So quit acting like you're so much better than me. You might not be as deep, but you're down here in the dark right along with me."

My breath rushed out and I shoved away from him. "Get out."

He moved into the center of the room. "My clothes are in your washer."

"Not my problem."

"I'm not leaving without them."

I swore and turned away from him. "Then leave when they're done."

"And go where? I'll be back in the morning anyway."

Bristling, I spun back. "Why?"

"Finding a killer, remember? Or has your commitment fizzled out already?"

My teeth clacked together. Maybe I should tell him the MPD was investigating me for murder; the prospect of agents knocking on the door would get him out of here. But revealing that information meant handing him a weapon he could use against me.

"Fine," I snarled. "Do what you want. I'm going to bed."

"Got anything to eat?"

"In the kitchen. Help yourself." I stormed to my room. "But don't touch anything else!"

Slamming my bedroom door, I gulped back the urge to pull my knife.

Down in the dark, he'd said. I didn't want to understand, but I knew exactly what he meant. The dark… the violence. We were people who lived with and in violence. Around us and inside us.

But what had he meant when he'd asked why I could pass judgment on others, but he couldn't?

My breath rushed through my nose. I stomped to my closet, stretched up for the top shelf, and grabbed a clean bedsheet, a spare pillow, and a fuzzy blanket I used on cold winter nights. I stomped back across my room and whipped the door open.

The druid looked up. He was standing in front of my fridge, one hand on the open door as he examined its contents.

I threw my armload onto the sofa, marched back into my room, and slammed the door for a second time. Leaning back against it, I rested my head on the wood. Ríkr? How do you feel about guarding my room all night?

His reply was instant. I will protect your virtue with my dying breath, dove.

I grimaced as I pushed away from the door. My virtue wasn't what I was worried about.