Chapter 9

"So," I began, my voice flat with hostility, "what's wrong with your fae horse?"

With creepily vibrant eyes, the druid watched me tie my leather apron. I was too stunned by his demonstration of fae possession to react properly. Even Ríkr made no comment, his serpentine form curled around my shoulders.

"Tilliag chipped his hoof," he answered. "The broken edge is catching on rough terrain."

Depending on the chip, it might only need to be filed smooth. If it was bad, more drastic measures would be required. I picked up my farrier kit and stepped toward the door, then glanced back.

"Anything I should know about working on a fae's hooves?"

A corner of his mouth lifted. "Don't piss him off."

Helpful.

I strode out of the room. Ríkr uncoiled from my shoulders, and a tingle of magic washed off him as he shifted into a white crow. The bird flew up into the rafters and perched on a beam, his unblinking stare tracking the druid.

Tilliag waited in the crossties, his acid-green eyes burning. Most horses would've been throwing their heads around in agitation, but the fae stallion was alarmingly still. I approached slowly and stopped a few feet away.

Tilliag?I attempted, stretching my inner senses toward him.

A hard mental shove smacked me in the metaphysical face. This fae was as friendly and approachable as the druid.

I exhaled slowly. I'd like to look at your hooves.

REMOVE THE ROPES.

His mental voice slammed into me, the equivalent of a full-chested shout inside my skull. Wincing, I set my kit down and reached for the halter. A furious eye watched me as I unclipped the lead lines. I stretched up for the top of the halter to pull it over his ears, and he lifted his head, forcing me up onto my tiptoes.

I dropped back onto my heels. "Fine. Keep wearing it."

His ears flicked, then he lowered his head. I slid the halter off and tossed it aside.

"Which hoof is bothering you?" I asked, picking up my kit again.

He clacked his right front hoof against the concrete floor.

"I'm coming into the stall." Normally, I'd spend a few minutes getting to know a new horse and earning his trust, but I didn't think anything would gain this fae's trust. I slid in beside him, set my kit down, and faced his shoulder. "I'm going to touch you now."

He angled an ear toward me. I lay my hand against his withers, then slid it down. He lifted his leg before I could reach his fetlock. I pulled his hoof between my knees and hooked it against my leather-protected thigh.

"How bad is it?" the druid rumbled from behind me.

I examined the chip in the hoof wall. "Not bad. This won't take long."

Pulling out a curved blade, I dug it into the stallion's sole. He held still as I cut away the jagged edges around the chip. Horses' hooves were like human fingernails; no pain and minimal sensation unless the living tissue was damaged. I exchanged my blade for a rasp and began filing away the roughness.

"These horses aren't in great shape."

The druid's voice came from a bit farther away—near Whicker's and Whinny's stalls.

"They just arrived," I grunted breathlessly, my arms burning and back aching. "Remember the farmer I mentioned last night?"

"The one whose teeth you wanted to cut out?"

"Yeah. Those two were his horses."

"I see." A quiet pause. "Are you treating the gray for thrush?"

"Yeah."

"I can smell it. Must be bad."

"Yeah," I ground out, wondering why the hell he was making small talk with me.

"Are you treating the infection with an alchemic remedy?"

"No."

"Why not? It works better than regular—"

"Would you shut up?" I snapped. "I'm trying to work."

"Does filing require that much concentration?"

I ground my molars together. "Fuck off, asshole."

Tilliag snorted out a breath, sounding amused. Now the horse was laughing at me? Screw them both.

"You're going to disappear, right?" I growled. "Once you do whatever you came here to do?"

The druid's boots clomped closer. "I don't plan to stick around."

"Good. How long?"

"Until I leave? Depends how long it takes me to get to the bottom of the problem I'm investigating."

I resisted the urge to ask more about "the problem." I didn't care. Didn't want to care. "Well, hurry up."

"I'd love to, but it isn't easy."

"Why not?"

"You have to ask?"

"Huh?" I gave Tilliag's hoof a final pass with the rasp. "Whatever. I'm done."

Grabbing my kit, I retreated from the stall. The druid was leaning against Whicker's stall while the horse snuffled at his dark hair.

"Tilliag's hoof should be fine." I dropped my kit on the floor and wiped my arm across my forehead, mussing my bangs. "Just keep an eye on it for cracks. You can get lost now."

He pushed off the stall. "Not going to try to stab me again?"

Not while he had a powerful fae literally possessing him. "Just go already."

Giving me an odd, slashing glance, he strode past me to Tilliag as the stallion walked out of the tack stall. He took hold of the horse's fetlock and pulled his hoof up to examine the sole.

"Satisfied?" I asked sarcastically.

"Yes." He released the fae's hoof and turned back to me. "Do you really know nothing about what's happening with the fae in your own neighborhood?"

"Nope."

"You are a terrible witch."

I exhaled harshly through my nose.

"There's a coven around here, right?" he asked. "Do they know anything?"

"How should I know?"

"You're useless."

"I'm not trying to be helpful!" I snarled.

"You should be, seeing as you work so close to the kill zone. I've found a dozen bodies already and I haven't even made it to the crossroads yet."

Kill zone? Bodies? "Like the bear fae?"

His attention sharpened. "How do you know the bear fae is dead?"

"Did you kill it?"

"No. Tell me how you found out about its death."

My eyes darted between his as I debated whether he was lying. "You're going to the crossroads?"

"Answer my question."

"What does the crossroads have to do with this?"

Impatience ticked in his tight jaw, and he didn't reply, making it clear he'd provide no more answers unless I reciprocated. Which I had no intention of doing.

I bit the inside of my cheek, then let out an explosive breath. "Come with me."

Marching back into the tack room, I reached for the shelf above the table and pulled out a stack of maps marked with horse-friendly trails for our fundraiser rides. I slapped them down on the tabletop. As I flipped through them, the druid appeared beside me. My skin twitched at the invisible buzz of power radiating off him from that damn eagle fae.

And some people thought I was creepy.

"What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously.

"You said you haven't made it to the crossroads yet." I spread a map out and pointed to a spot north of the rescue, on the far side of Mount Burke's summit. "The crossroads is in this valley."

"I know where it is."

"But you can't get to it." I met his eyes, waiting for him to deny it, then tapped the map. "This is Dennett Lake. Take Quarry Road up to Munroe Lake Trail. It'll connect to Dennett Lake Trail. Follow that north until you reach the lake."

"I've already been there," he grumbled. "The slope on the north side is too steep to get up without rock-climbing gear."

"I know. You have to go west, around the lake. There's no trail until you get here." I pointed. "Summit Trail. It'll take you up onto the ridge, and from there you'll be able to see the valley. Find a way down and follow the valley to the crossroads."

"Are you sure?"

"I've never gone myself, but I've been to Dennett Lake and the other witches in my coven told me about the route to the crossroads."

Grunting, he leaned over the map to study the route I'd traced, hands braced on the tabletop. Large, strong hands.

"So," I said flatly, "you're going to go there immediately, figure shit out, and leave?"

"That's the plan."

"Good." I whipped my hand out of my pocket. Steel flashed as I brought my switchblade down, slamming it into the tabletop between two of his fingers.

He jolted but didn't yank his hand away.

My knuckles were white around the knife's worn black handle as I looked into his dangerously close fae-bright eyes. "If I ever see your face again, that will be your throat."

He flicked a glance from the knife to my face, his brow furrowed. Instead of angry or intimidated, he seemed disconcerted, almost perplexed—and in response, my gut swooped as though the ground beneath me had shifted.

Then his expression tightened with cold disdain, and I wondered if I'd imagined it.

"With charm like yours," he sneered, "how could I resist returning?"

I bared my teeth. He stepped back—then grabbed the map, tearing the edge where my knife was still embedded.

"Hey! I didn't say you could take that!"

Without a word, he walked out of the room. I sped after him, but by the time I cleared the threshold, he'd reached Tilliag. Grabbing the stallion's mane, he swung himself up. Hooves clopped loudly as the horse pushed into a rolling canter, speeding the length of the stable.

Whicker let out an envious whinny as the fae stallion and his druid disappeared into the afternoon sunlight.

* * *

"Dinner is served!"

Greta set a loaded plate in front of me, and I scooted my wooden chair closer to the table. My mouth watered at the delicious scents filling the eat-in kitchen.

Sinking into her chair, Greta smiled at Dominique. They'd been partners since before I'd met them. Dominique ran the front end of the rescue, Greta ran the back end, and they shared the labor around the farm.

I picked up my utensils and cut into my golden-fried pork schnitzel. "Is this your Oma's recipe?"

"Yes." Greta scooped a forkful of sp?tzle into her mouth. "No more experiments. Chicken schnitzel just doesn't do it for me."

I chewed a perfectly cooked bite of pork, silently agreeing. Not that I would ever complain when they fed me every night for free.

The oak cupboards were faded and scuffed, the patterned linoleum floor curling in the corners, and the floral wallpaper peeling, but I loved this kitchen. I'd started volunteering at the rescue during my last year at vet-tech school, and by graduation, I'd been spending so much time here that Dominique had offered to let me rent the suite above the stable.

I'd lived here for four years now, and every night I ate dinner in this kitchen. I couldn't imagine not eating my next four years of dinners here too.

"Thank you," I murmured, spearing a boiled carrot on my fork.

Dominique sighed. "How many times do we have to tell you that you don't need to thank us?"

"But I'm—"

"Just a volunteer? You always say that, but you also live here, pay rent, spend all your free time helping us, and manage a huge portion of the daily animal care. This rescue wouldn't function without you, Saber."

"But you don't have to feed me."

Dominique muttered something that sounded like, "Talking to a wall."

I said nothing, feeling too raw from my encounter with the druid for small talk. I didn't play "nice Saber" with them the way I did at work, but I also never showed them the real me.

The real me scared people. I was creepy. I was crazy. I was the psychotic, violent, vengeful girl with a knife and zero compunctions about using it. If we hadn't been interrupted, I would've sung an Irish folk song as I cut out Harvey Whitby's molars, jagged shards of hate grinding in my chest.

If Dominique and Greta saw that side of me, they'd never invite me into their home again.

"By the way, Saber, I have bad news."

I looked up. Dominique took a slow sip of water, her eyes sad behind her large glasses.

"Harvey Whitby's third horse was found dead in the woods north of Quarry Road. Since it was found inside the provincial park, BC Parks wants a necropsy done just to be safe, but they think it's heart failure due to severe malnutrition."

"Heart failure?" I repeated skeptically.

"I suspect Whitby had something to do with it too." She tapped her fork on her plate. "But the horse had no visible injuries."

I remembered stroking the deceased horse's neck and noticing the lack of a bullet wound. But I'd heard the gunshot. Had Whitby missed the shot but scared the horse to death? Or had that bear fae caused the horse's demise?

After finishing dinner, I helped with the dishes, then bid Dominique and Greta goodnight. My thoughts dwelled on the palomino's mysterious death as I completed my evening routine in the stable, checked on the animals in the pasture, then unlocked the stable's back door and ascended the stairs to the second level.

My suite sat above the tack room, feed room, and tack stalls. Though tiny, it was comfortable, with a squashy sofa facing an old TV I never used, a cramped kitchenette, and the world's smallest table, joined by two little chairs. It looked like playhouse furniture.

I stripped off my clothes and entered the equally small bathroom, fitted with a toilet, pedestal sink, and tiny shower. A few minutes under the shower's hot water washed off the sweat and odor of the barn, but it couldn't wash the questions from my mind.

The bear fae's unprovoked attack and unexplained death. A "kill zone" of fae violence and bodies. The mysterious death of Whitby's palomino. The druid's interest in the crossroads.

Returning to the main room in baggy sweats and a t-shirt, a towel wrapped around my wet hair, I flopped down on the sofa. "Ríkr?"

A moment later, a shimmer disturbed the window. An all-white magpie flew through the glass and landed on the arm of the sofa.

Ríkr's ability to pass through solid objects like a phantom didn't startle me. It was a common fae ability. They could move between their spirit realm and the human world in strange ways, and what seemed perfectly solid in my world was a transparent shadow in theirs. Anything that lacked presence and permanence was insubstantial to them, and human structures lacked both.

When I focused my vision correctly, I could glimpse their domain—a landscape of mist and shadows. If I were to ever fully enter their world, it might look quite different, but I'd never find out.

With a flare of faint blue light, Ríkr transformed into a cat. You called, dove?

"Tell me about the crossroads."

He lay down on the sofa's arm. What would you like to know?

"Just the basics. I want to know why that druid is so interested."

Dwelling on the druid?he asked coyly. Ruminating on his—

I rolled my eyes. "The crossroads, Ríkr."

He swished his tail. Crossroads are places of power that connect your world to multiple points in my world that are otherwise impossibly far from one another. It is an ancient magic that was used by fae of old to travel great distances with ease.

"How many other places can a crossroads connect to?"

Some crossroads, only two. Others, a dozen or more.He cracked his lips in a feline smile. Fae of elder knowledge and power can traverse the world in mere steps if they know the correct route to take from crossroads to crossroads.

I pushed my bangs up and rubbed my forehead. "How many places does the crossroads to the north connect to?"

He licked his paw and rubbed it over one ear. Four. You have not asked the most pertinent question, dove.

My eyebrows rose. "What question is that?"

Standing, he arched his back. Can a mere human traverse the crossroads as we can?

I blinked. "Can they?"

He leaped off the sofa and sauntered away.

"Ríkr," I grumbled irritably.

I'm hungry.

"You're not actually a cat, you know. Stop acting like one."

He let out a loud meow. Maybe I am. You do not know what my true form is.

"You're a shapeshifter," I scoffed. "Do you even have a true form?"

Of course. Can you not guess it?

I frowned. He favored a cat and a hawk, but somehow, neither seemed quite right for his "true" form. "Give me a hint."

He shot a scathing blue-eyed stare over his shoulder.

"Probably the cobra," I decided.

I am not a cobra!

As he stalked off in a huff, I leaned back into the sofa, chewing my lower lip. Should I have sent the druid to the crossroads? I hadn't wanted to help him, but he would've found it on his own sooner or later, and I'd rather he leave sooner.

Fae aggression. Mysterious deaths. A druid who didn't belong here.

Arla knew something. What was she hiding, and why? I shouldn't have told her about my encounter with the Crystal Druid; I hadn't realized he was a wanted rogue. Had she reported his presence to MagiPol, or did she want to avoid the authorities?

If the druid were to be believed, there was a "kill zone" in my coven's territory—in my territory—and I knew only two people who might have answers. One I'd sent to the crossroads, and the other…

I pushed off the sofa and strode into my bedroom, pulling the towel off my head.

Ríkr appeared at my heels. Going somewhere?

"To see Arla."

As I opened my closet and pulled out a pair of jeans, my familiar's voice murmured in my head.

Does this count as doing something stupid?