Chapter 8

I parked beside a beat-up bronze sedan that belonged to one of Hearts Hooves' regular volunteers. Dominique and Greta's Ranger was gone; they were running errands this afternoon.

The breeze teased my loose hair through my truck's open windows as I leaned back in the driver's seat, my phone in my hand. On it was the MPD Archives, a website where any mythic with a login could browse information about other mythics, guilds, and bounties set on the heads of the magic community's criminals.

Filling my screen was a bounty listing.

"‘Zakariya Andrii,'" I read quietly. "‘Also known as the Ghost and the Crystal Druid. Charged with three hundred and forty-five felonies under MPD law. A "dead or alive" bounty of one point three million dollars will be awarded upon his capture or death, pending confirmation of identity.'"

The bounty for killing a demon, the deadliest magical creature out there, was less than half that. I skimmed the list of charges against him. Illegal magic, illegal trading, theft, extortion, blackmail, assault…

Kidnapping.

Murder.

This guy was a dedicated career criminal with a mile-long rap sheet. The bounty information flashed past as I scrolled down to the notes section, used by bounty hunters to share information. A quick scan of the comments revealed that "the Ghost's" real name and his second alias of the Crystal Druid had only been discovered recently.

The commentary also suggested he was the most notorious rogue in Vancouver.

"Why?" I muttered. "If he's an infamous fugitive, why tell me who he is?"

Because you are a witch with a familiar,Ríkr answered, sprawled on the passenger seat beside me. No fae would mistake him for anything but a druid, and pretending to be any other druid would be a fool's move.

"Because he's the one and only Crystal Druid?" I muttered mockingly, using Ríkr's wording from earlier.

Despite my tone, I could see his point; druids were extremely rare, known for being magnitudes more powerful than their weaker magical cousins: witches like me. They were also known for their extreme power carrying them straight to an early grave.

His energy was exquisitely, savagely delectable,my familiar added. How does he not have an assembly of drooling fae trailing his every step?

"Were you drooling?" I asked as I scrolled back to the top of the webpage.

I would never drool.Sitting up, he arched his feline back in a stretch. An august entity such as myself salivates. They are quite different things.

Snorting, I reread the bounty summary, fitting his name to that enigmatic face and those inhuman green eyes. "Zakariya Andrii…"

Ríkr flicked his tail. An unusual name, is it not?

I opened a web search. After a minute of tapping, I shook my head bemusedly. "‘Zakariya' is an Arabic form of Zachariah. ‘Andrii' is… a Ukrainian given name? I don't think it's normally a surname. Maybe he adopted it."

Remembering his fair skin, I assumed Ukrainian was more likely than Arabic. Pulling up more variants of Zachariah, I spotted a close Russian/Ukrainian spelling—Zakhariya.

I abruptly exited the search. Why was I researching his name? Why was I giving him any thought at all? I wasn't going anywhere near him again, even if that meant leaving the bear fae's death and Arla's secrets alone for now. Where rogues went, bounty hunters and MPD agents followed, and drawing the attention of either was the last thing I needed.

It was better that I hunker down, stick to my usual routine, and wait for "the Ghost" to get lost. Whatever strange fae behavior he might be tracking, he wouldn't risk staying in one area too long. I'd have to refrain from any nighttime wandering—or lawbreaking—but I could resist for a little while. Probably.

"Ríkr," I muttered as I stuck my phone in my back pocket. "Don't let me do anything stupid until that druid is gone, okay?"

He flicked his tail. That may be difficult, dove.

I frowned at him as he gave me a catty smile and leaped out the open passenger window.

"Saber!"

I started, whipping toward my window. Colby, our volunteer, stood beside it, and I swallowed a breathy gasp. Why did people keep sneaking up on me?

He grinned. "Thought I heard your truck! You have a customer."

I stared at him without expression. His good cheer faltered.

"The rescue doesn't have customers," I told him flatly. We had donors and volunteers, not customers.

"Well, yeah." He rubbed his hand over his shaggy blond hair. "I said you were an apprentice farrier only, but it's a simple job. You can do it. They're waiting in the stable."

Waiting? I looked around the yard. There were no vehicles other than mine and Colby's, and besides that, the city boy didn't know enough about horses or farriery to determine if anything was a "simple" job or not. His main duty around the rescue was cleaning.

He watched me with growing discomfort, and I belatedly remembered he was used to "nice" Saber.

I opened my door with a bright smile. "Let's go see this customer, then."

Relaxing, he fell into step beside me. "You're not mad, are you? I didn't think it'd be a problem, especially since… well, he basically walked his horse into the yard. No idea how he got here and there are no other farriers in riding distance…"

He'd walked his horse here? Several farms had horses in this area, but a farmer wouldn't show up out of the blue. "What sort of horse is it?"

His face lit up as we stepped into the cool shade of the stable. "Saber, it's the most gorgeous horse I've ever laid eyes on. Wait 'til you see it."

Suspicion chilled my innards. Ríkr?

A quiet snicker answered me. Have fun, dove.

That little weasel.

My eyes adjusted to the dim interior, and I gritted my teeth at the majestic blue roan stallion standing in front of the tack stalls.

His ears perked toward me. Nostrils flared. Neck arched with tension. Tail up. If he were a mortal horse, I'd have checked my approach and watched for the first sign of outright aggression—but unlike a mortal horse, a fae wouldn't give me clear warning signs before attacking.

Unconcerned about his mount's behavior, the stallion's escort stood in front of Whicker's stall. The big gray had his head through the door's V-shaped opening, and he was bumping his nose against the man's chest and lipping at his shirt in search of treats while the man rubbed his forehead.

The gentle, confident way the druid touched the horse made me want to carve the bones out of his hands, one by one.

At the sound of our footsteps, he shifted away from the stall and turned. Last night, he'd radiated danger in his black leather and shadowed hood. Today, likely in an attempt to blend in, he'd shed the jacket and belt of alchemy potions, leaving him in a long-sleeved shirt and worn black jeans. His dark hair was tousled, locks falling across his forehead as he observed my approach.

His stallion was an extraordinarily beautiful equine, and I reluctantly admitted that horse and rider were a matched pair for stunning looks.

As I drew closer, the druid's eyes widened. They raked across my face, then flashed down to my boots. His gaze came back up more slowly, following my snug jeans with threadbare knees up to my baggy gray t-shirt.

I added his eyes to the list of body parts I wanted to gouge out of him.

When I halted ten feet away from him, his gaze finally returned to my face. We stared at each other, tension crackling in the air. Colby looked between us, vaguely bewildered.

"Good afternoon!" I chirped, beaming in welcome as I folded my hands in front of me. "And welcome to Hearts Hooves Animal Rescue. How can I help you?"

The druid blinked, then squinted at me as though wondering if I was the same woman who'd threatened him with a knife last night. "Are you a farrier?"

"An apprentice farrier, yes," I said brightly. "Is your horse in need of attention? We normally provide farrier services only to the animals in our care."

"Can you make an exception? It shouldn't take long."

Very aware that Colby was observing our every word and facial expression, I kept my cheery smile in place. "In that case, I'd be happy to help. Can you please tie your horse in the tack stall?"

"I don't have a halter."

Was the druid a free-riding purist, or did his fae mount not like bits and saddles?

"You can borrow one," Colby said helpfully. "I'll grab it, one sec."

He darted into the tack room. I continued to smile, hands clasped together. The druid gazed at me silently.

Colby reappeared, a halter in his hands. He tossed it to the druid. "That one should be big enough."

The druid caught it with a frown, then turned to the stallion. The fae pinned his ears. The druid slowly approached, and the fae stamped a hoof, then lowered his head. The druid slid the halter on, backed the horse into the stall, and clipped a line to either side of the halter. The stallion tossed his head, the ropes snapping taut.

"Just deal with it," the druid muttered.

My smile widened. I turned to Colby. "Could you please bring Houdini in from the pasture and put him in the small pen? I need to look at him later."

Colby pulled his mesmerized stare off the stallion. "Sure, no problem. I'll be right back."

As he trotted away, I said to the druid, "Let me get my tools."

He nodded, wariness lingering in his eyes.

With a glance to ensure Colby was on his way, I slipped into the tack room. He wouldn't "be right back." It'd take him ten minutes to walk all the way out to the far pasture where I'd seen Houdini on my drive in. And there was Houdini himself: a hundred-pound goat whose favorite game was making humans chase him. Colby would spend the next hour jogging around the pasture while Houdini stayed just out of reach.

I surveyed the tack room. Horizontal posts stuck out from one wall, saddles stacked on them. Halters, bridles, and lead lines hung from hooks. On the other wall was a table piled with random equipment. Beneath it, the toolbox and my farrier kit.

Ensuring the druid was out of sight, I heaved the toolbox out and set it on one side of the threshold. I grabbed a wrench, picked up the pitchfork Colby had left behind, and tucked myself into the corner beside the door, opposite the toolbox.

Bounties and money didn't interest me. But abusers, kidnappers, and murderers did, especially when they were invading my territory. I didn't know whether the druid was here because of our encounter last night or for some other reason, but I didn't care either way. His presence on the farm was far too dangerous in far too many ways, and I wanted him gone.

Or dead. Dead worked too.

I held out the wrench, then let it go. It hit the floor with a loud clang.

Gasping as though startled, I called, "Can I get a hand in here?"

Silence. I waited.

A moment later, the druid appeared in the doorway, cautiously scanning the tack room as he stepped across the threshold.

I lunged for him, pitchfork extended.

He whirled toward me, hands coming up as he instinctively stepped backward—into the toolbox.

He tripped, and as he slammed down on his back, I thrust the pitchfork at his chest. He caught the prongs, the long sleeves of his shirt pulling taut as thick muscles in his arms bulged. He shoved upward, pushing me off. I lunged in again, throwing my whole weight behind the handle.

He caught the prongs again, halting them an inch from his chest.

"Fuck," he snarled as he shoved the pitchfork back a second time, twisting the prongs sideways. It tore out of my hands—and he kicked my shin hard enough to throw me off balance. A second kick caught my other ankle and I pitched over.

I crashed to the floor and he jumped on me with a martial artist's reflexes. I went wild, teeth bared as I attacked with fists and knees. We rolled across the floor and my back slammed down again. Hands caught my wrists, squeezing hard.

With a grunt of effort, he shoved my arms above my head and sat on my diaphragm. The air whooshed out of my lungs.

"Fuck," he said again, panting. "You're strong."

He didn't say "for a woman" but I heard it anyway. "Rot in hell, you bastard."

"Didn't I save your life last night? Nice way to thank me."

"Am I supposed to thank you for stalking me?" I gasped. "What the fuck do you want?"

He glowered at me with eyes that looked more human than they had last night—a striking green with a distinct limbal ring, but not iridescent. "I didn't know you worked here. If I had, I wouldn't have come."

I sneered. "Like I believe that, Ghost."

He chuffed in disgust—then froze when a long white snake dropped off the table and landed on his back. The serpent reared up, cobra hood flaring.

Hello, druid,Ríkr crooned, his serpentine tongue tasting the air. You smell delicious.

The druid pressed my wrists harder into the floor, half an eye on the snake on his shoulder. "You sure you want to play this game? You'll lose."

Ríkr brought his face closer to the druid's, displaying his fangs.

"Your familiar is tied up," I taunted, trying to hide how breathless I was.

"Tilliag isn't my familiar."

I faltered—and an unearthly chill ran through my bones.

Darkness spilled out from the ceiling overhead, and a shape dropped through the solid wood like a phantom. Shadowy wings spread wide as a massive black eagle dove down. Ríkr bailed off the druid's shoulder as the eagle landed on his back, its wingtips brushing the walls. The raptor fixed its luminescent emerald eyes on me.

Dark, electric power rolled off the fae.

Ríkr coiled beside my head, hissing softly with his hood flared. The druid and I glared at each other, our familiars poised to attack. Since Ríkr wasn't actually a cobra and had no venom, we were doomed to lose, but the druid might not realize that.

"Look," he said, his voice husky with impatient anger. "I don't give a damn about you or your familiar or your job. I came here for Tilliag and that's it."

My eyes narrowed.

"I could tie you up and take care of him myself, but I'm not a farrier. If you have the skill, I'd rather you do it."

My eyes narrowed further. He studied my expression, then growled a curse and looked around for easy-to-reach rope—of which there was a lot, since we were in a tack room.

"I'll do it."

He shot me a disbelieving look.

"Just—" I gasped. "Just get off me before I pass out."

He rose a couple inches off my middle. My lungs expanded and I gulped down air, blinking the stars from my vision.

"Take care of Tilliag's hoof," he said, "and you'll never see me again."

That seemed like the best deal I would get. "Fine."

He pushed up from the floor. As he rose, the black eagle perched on his shoulders flared its wings. Its form softened—and it melted into his back, vanishing entirely. His green eyes brightened into an unnaturally iridescent shade of emerald.

Still on my back on the floor, I stared up at him, scarcely able to believe what I'd seen. His familiar had possessed him.

Possessedhim.

That eagle fae was inside his body and mind, its presence and power infecting him. Ríkr had been my daily companion for seven years and I would never allow him to do that.

No wonder druids usually died young.