Chapter 29

The next morning, Quinn arrived at Anna’s to find the place in chaos. Her carefully tended garden looked like a tornado had passed through. Row after row of carefully tended lavender was uprooted and scattered, as were the vegetables and tomato plants. He found her kneeling beside a stand of lilies that were smashed flat.

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and pointed. A thumbellina-sized sprite lay broken among the lilies.

“They killed her. She tried her best to protect her lilies, poor thing.”

Saria is not going to take this well. The sprites were her kin.

“Who did this?”

Anna ignored the question. “They had no call to do this,” she said dully.

He asked again. His voice was harsh and cold as ice. “Who did this Anna.”

“Two mother-damned boggles. You can see their tracks all over the place. Something must have stirred them up. They are like weasels. When the frenzy strikes—they destroy for the joy of it.”

Anna cocked her head, then strode to the ancient lightening struck cedar. Her arm shot out as quick as a snake and came up with a small hob dangling from her right hand.

“Look what I found stalking here. This hob is a spy for sure.” she sang in fluting low-alfar, “it can’t keep its nose out of other people’s business. It will get its nose cut off someday. Might be today. Might be it is the being that did all this damage.”

“Not spy,” it piped, and squealed as she gave it a shake. “Did not do this bad thing. Curious about the new Keeper is all.”

“Good morning Singer and Song bless you, Master Hob,” Quinn sang politely. “Do you ken what I am?”

The elf peered at him with near-sighted eyes, then his greenish-brown face filled with terror. He nodded jerkily in Anna’s grip.

“Yes, Master, you are the Vísdómur’s Shadow Walker. Please Master don’t kill me.”

“Talk truth then, O Hob and tell me. Have you seen the interlopers who violated this place?”

“Singer and Song bless you, master,” the brownie took a deep breath and shook himself loose from Anna’s grip, gave her a glare and brushed the twigs and leaves from his green fur. He bowed deeply to Quinn.

“There were a faerie. Very tall. A male. It whispered and whispered. The two boggles, they howled and howled in a fury. They are the beings who tore up Mistress Anna’s grove. The tall faerie had a mangled hand.”

“My thanks,” Quinn sang. “If you ever find yourself in need, you may call on me.”

The brownie scampered off into the forest, but not before stopping at the edge of the undergrowth and finger signaled an alfar curse at Anna.

“He will look to take advantage,” she grumbled. “The hob folk are nothing but disgusting tricksters. It is never a good idea to encourage his kind.”

“I know him and he recognized me. He wouldn’t risk a lie. Wait here, Anna. I’m going to have a chat with those Boggles.”

Quinn slid into the underbrush without a sound.

The Boggle’s camp was not a pretty place. Set in a meadow surrounded by ancient cedar trees, it was strewn with scraps of bone and fur from the prey they trapped. The Boggle were goblins, the largest and most vicious of the species. They were omnivore hunter-gatherers. Intelligent enough, Quinn knew, but given to violent mood swings because of the mushrooms adults and young consumed as an intoxicant. The clan had an easy life, the Opari teamed with ready prey and thousands of edible plants.

Quinn stepped into their meeting circle, sat down and waited for the tribe return from their daily hunt.

A triumphant hooting heralded the clan’s return, which ceased abruptly as they spied Quinn sitting calmly in the comfortable space reserved for their chief.

The chief, its skin gray and hair white with age, stepped forward.

“We eat you soon, human.” He grated in low Alfar. “First though we play pain game with you.”

“Sligurd, do you recognize me, “ Quinn sang softly.

“I do not know you human. How you know Sligurd of the Ninth Clan. You dare to trespass?”

Quinn sighed and loosed the dragon. The whip flared out and snapped around the chief’s neck.

“Sit down, Sligurd. Tell your clan to step back.’ Quinn sang louder now. “Goblin, I asked you once. I ask you twice. Do not make me ask you thrice. Do you know what I am.”

“Aye, Master, I know who you be,” The goblin thoroughly cowed sank to his knees. The clan followed with a moan.

“Your clan broke the Keeper’s Law. The witch Anna’s hut was ransacked. What say you Sligurd?”

“No. It was not the clan,” the goblin seemed honestly offended. “We do not venture close to the border. We do not bother witch — is forbidden.”

“What of your outliers?”

Boggle bands always traveled with scouts to the front, back and sides. The Opari teemed with predators. Scouting was dangerous work and thus fell to the young males. A chief had a perfect tool to weed out any overly aggressive youth who might threaten him.

“They see nothing,” the goblin’s eyes narrowed with calculation as he eyed Quinn. His bluster slowly returned now that Quinn hadn’t harmed anyone. Predictable. Quinn sighed, he watched and waited...

“The thing is goblin, one of Opari’s sprites was slain.” Quinn called the whip back, then abruptly snap-flashed the shrieking whip into the middle of the watching boggles to remove the pointer finger of a big goblin who was fingering his knife.

Its howl of agony echoed in the glen.

“Goblin, I am losing patience. If another being threatens, I will slaughter the lot of you,” Quinn sang harshly. Boggles had two responses to outsiders—absolute aggression or cloying obsequiousness. He had to keep the upper hand. He really didn’t want to hurt these creatures. He could feel the Other’s disapproval. As far as it was concerned, a threat was a warning—poor tactics. He mentally took a firm grasp on his temper.

“Bring your outliers forth. Now!”

“Ozz and Oild, come.”

The others hurriedly pushed two small boggles to the front of the pack. They stood heads hanging down, feet shifting nervously.

“It was faerie. Bad hand faerie. Liar. Promised treasures so we can make own clan.

“What was the faerie’s name? The one with the mangled hand. The one who promised you treasure.“ He knew very well that these two young creatures standing like delinquent teenagers were not at fault, really. He was not there to punish or enforce Keeper Law. He wanted the faerie.

“Deldrach, master. He promised I and Oild of a bag of red rubies. Then he gave a spelling to make us strong. And I don’t remember after that.

The other youngling mutter-sang resentfully. “It lied the faerie did, it went away and left us there. We did not mean any harm.”

“You will meet with the sprites and provide weregild for the death of the little one. These two are to be punished but not harmed. None of you could stand against a faerie’s trickery.”

When he got back to Anna’s, Sari was there helping clean up the mess. Quinn pitched in and they were soon finished with most of the damage when a little voice sounded from the porch behind them.

“Where’s my mama?

The little wolf girl with her hair all a tangle stood on Anna’s porch swathed in a blanket. Her eyes were filling with tears as she looked around.

“I want my mama. Where is she?”

“Well you’re finally awake you sleepy head,” Anna said with forced heartiness. “Let’s get you dressed and get you some breakfast. How does an omelet sound?”

Anna led her inside to feed her and get her dressed. Anna came out holding the little girl’s hand. The little girl’s solemn eyes watched as Quinn walked over to her. She was alert and clear eyed, almost a different girl.

“Hello little one, my name is Lachlan. Will you tell me what yours is?”

“Do you know where my mama is?”

“No I don’t, little wolf, but I promise I will keep you safe till we find her.”

“Are you going to be my new papa?”

Quinn’s first thought was:

This is why you stay the f•©k away from witches.

Quinn found himself riding in silence with Anna and the little girl back to town. The little girl sat close beside him. He tried to ignore her, but her steady stare was unsettling.

Very unsettling.

Her daddy question hit him like a two by four swung right into his belly. It made him literally breathless. To add to the confusion, his mind was running around in circles trying to figure out what to do with her. Somehow it had become his job to make sure she was okay. He had enough experience with the System to know that she was never going to go there if he had to run for the rest of his life to keep her out.

But he wished she would quit with the staring.

He gave her a side eye and was surprised when her little head snapped to the side to peer out the passenger side window.

A faint scream had sounded.

“Bad things,” She murmured, “Wrongness.”

Anna was looking at her with an expression of absolute shock.

Quinn stopped the truck and backed up to the driveway of the farmyard they had just passed. He wrenched the wheel and pulled into a farmyard.

Anna switched her still shocked gaze from the little girl to him.

“What are you doing? This is old Edna’s place.”

“Something’s wrong. Didn’t you hear the scream? Can’t hurt to check it out.” Quinn had far too much experience with fey feelings to ignore them.

An old run-down farm house squatted the end of the driveway. The place looked like it hadn’t been cared for a long time. A rusty old pickup stood in the driveway. A ramshackle barn and corral lay in the background. The corral held a starved looking mustang horse, its head hanging low, a picture of silent misery.

Underlying all the disorder was the scent of apricots. Quinn turned his attention to the barn.

Chanting.

The apricot smell grew stronger.

His glyphs flared hot. He could feel his hair standing on end. Waves of magic blossomed out of the barn.

A triumphant shriek sounded, and half the barn disappeared behind a warp in the fabric of reality. Through it Quinn could see a night sky lit by two enormous moons. A cold wind blew out of it bringing the dank smell of bog and swamp.

Alfheim, the land of the Sidhe. Quinn remembered the place very well—he’d spent a lot of time in the world of the Sidhe.

A keening wailing echoed. It rose in pitch until it passed beyond human hearing.

“Sweet Mother of All, what is that,” Anna asked. Her normally tan face was pale.

“The cry of a Soul Reaper,” Quinn said absently. “The Algonquin sorcerers used to call them the Wendigo. They are members of the Dökkálfar assassin brotherhood, the Drygioni.”

The Hag strode out of the barn with a triumphant expression on her wrinkled face. “Not a coven in a million could have summoned a Reaper from across the rift, but I did it alone.”