The Queen's Choice Page 8

  “Did you get a look at who hurt you, Anya?” he asked, motioning toward my back.

  My jaw tightened, his interest resurrecting my fear that he might be a Fae-hater. Perhaps he was worried I might be able to identify one of his friends.

  “No, only that it was a group of five men and one woman.”

  Thatcher took a pull on his pipe, considering. “I’ve on occasion seen a group of men in this part of the forest. I’ve never thought of them as Fae hunters, though. They do contract work for clients, but I suppose if the client wanted a unique trophy...” He trailed off and tapped the stem of his pipe against his chin. “I’ve never seen a woman with them. I imagine it could have been the client. Some want to experience the thrill of the kill, if you know what I mean. Fetishists and the like.”

  My stomach churned at his choice of words. Were we Fae viewed as no more than animals on this side of the Bloody Road? How could someone take pleasure in the agony that had been inflicted on me? The notion was faith-shattering. Maybe the Anti-Unification League’s rhetoric that we should keep this kind of evil locked outside our borders had more validity than I had been willing to consider.

  “I don’t know any of the men personally, mind you,” Thatcher continued, showing no sign he was aware of my reaction. “Not the sort of folks I choose as associates. But it is a group of five, related in some way, brothers or cousins, I think.”

  Silence fell, for I did not know how to respond. His matter-of-fact tone sounded a hollow note against my painful reality.

  “Dad,” Shea interjected, coming to lay a hand gently on my shoulder. “Can we talk about something else?”

  Thatcher sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. “Of course. I don’t suppose it does any good to rehash the past. But I am sorry, Anya, for what those men did to you.”

  His expression was sincere enough, confusing me all the more. He was a difficult man to read, and I couldn’t determine if his inquiries came from a desire to know because he was somehow involved, or if he was trying to help. In the end, I remained guarded and on alert.

  “Go on to bed,” he finished. “I’m sure you’re tired.” Meeting Shea’s eyes, he added, “I suggest you and your mother re-dress Anya’s wounds. Her outing this morning won’t have done her back any good.”

  With a nod, Shea went to retrieve the medical supplies from a cupboard over the stove, and we walked together to the bedroom.

  “This is your room, isn’t it?” I asked upon entering, drawing my conclusion from the clothing I had found in the wardrobe.

  “Yes, I’m sleeping in with Marissa and Maggie for now. Dad thinks it’s best this way.”

  “Afraid I’ll devour you in the middle of the night?”

  “Good guess.”

  “I was joking.”

  “So was I.” She grinned and pulled out some fresh bandages. “Let me have a look at you.”

  I sat on the bed, turning away from her so she could methodically re-dress my wounds. At some point, Elyse came in to observe Shea’s progress. After a few minutes, she set a vial on the nightstand.

  “For pain,” she explained, not quite meeting my eyes. “Two sips should dull any discomfort you might have.”

  “Thank you.”

  A smile flitted across her lips. “You’re quite welcome. Now get some rest. It’s important to a speedy recovery.”

  She gave her daughter a nod to tell her she was doing fine work, and departed.

  “There,” Shea declared, coming to her feet. “Now be a good patient. Even with that juice from my mother, this is going to take a while to heal. Every time you tear it open, you set yourself back.”

  “Got it. And thank you.”

  She went to the door, then turned about with an impish smile. “Just so you know, I expect you to return every stitch of clothing you take from my wardrobe.”

  I laughed, and she disappeared from sight, leaving me feeling relaxed for the first time all day.

  * * *

  I was awake early enough the next morning to hear Thatcher leave the house. I scrambled to my feet, dressing as quickly as I could given my sore muscles and ungainly movements. After grabbing my cloak, I passed through the cabin and out the front door, wanting to take a look around. My excursion to the Bloody Road hadn’t allowed me much opportunity to scout the area. Seeing tracks that led into the woods, I assumed Thatcher was gone, and trekked around the side of the cabin.

  It was cold, the morning light so faint it appeared to cast a shadow. I stepped slowly, cautiously, the crunch of my boots resonant in the still woods. I rounded the corner to reach the back of the home and came to a stop, eyes on a shack nestled among the trees. It was roughly built, giving the impression it had been erected in a hurry; it stood as though its knees were drawing together. I approached, my senses on full alert. If Thatcher knew more about the hunters than he had revealed...what might be hidden inside? Were my wings or those of other Fae tacked along the walls?

  The door was locked. Glancing upward, I saw a small window set below the eaves. Without thought, I flexed the muscles that would have unfurled my wings, but instead of rising off the ground, I doubled over in pain. As the agonizing stabs in my back diminished, I mentally berated myself. Straightening, I spotted a sturdy branch that overhung the building. If I could drop from it onto the roof, I could lay flat and lean over the edge to get a look in the window. Plan in place, I scaled the tree, gritting my teeth against the stretching and tightening of my back muscles. When I was high enough, I inched out onto the branch and swung down, hanging by my arms as I prepared to drop.

  “What the hell are you doing up there?”

  My fingers went to jelly and I barely managed to maintain my grip on the branch. Thatcher stood ten paces from the shed, holding a string of rabbits in one hand, his hunting gun in the other. His expression was a blend of incredulity and displeasure that made him look like he’d taken a drink of sour milk.

  “I, um...I can’t fly, so I climbed the tree.” Unable to lie, I told the truth, although not the complete story.

  “I see.” He rested the butt of his gun against the ground and rubbed his brow. “For what purpose?”

  “To get higher?” My arms aching, I let myself drop onto the roof. I landed more heavily than I’d expected, gravity apparently the only element that had an interest in me, and I nearly tumbled backward into the snow below.

  Thatcher snorted. “Looks to me like you wanted to get on top of my shed.”

  I gave him a sheepish shrug. “There’s a good view from up here.”

  “A view of what exactly?”

  When I didn’t respond, he hoisted his hunting gun so the barrel rested against his shoulder and took a few steps closer.

  “In case you’re interested, that window’s too dirty to see through. So I’d suggest you get down. There’s nothing of interest for you here.”

  Embarrassed, I slid to the edge of the roof and dropped to the ground, wincing upon landing. As the cold wind erased some of the heat from my cheeks, I labored over what to say. Did I owe him an apology? Should I risk asking him about the things that troubled me?

  “Just go back inside,” he ordered, stepping past me to unlock the shed.

  I nodded, but didn’t move, trying to perceive his character, to understand his motives.

  “Out with it,” he abruptly directed, hand on the door latch. “What is it you want to know?”

  I bit my lip hard and met his eyes. “Are you or were you a Fae hunter?”

  He laughed shortly. “I won’t hold that question against you, Anya, but no, I don’t hunt your kind. I find the sport, if you want to call it that, barbaric.”

  I offered him a weak smile, for I believed he was being honest. “Thank you. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

  “No harm done.” He gave
his string of rabbits a shake. “Now go inside so I can skin these.”

  I headed back to the house, knowing I should feel better about Thatcher in the aftermath of our encounter. But something about his behavior still made me uneasy, and I finally realized what it was—he hadn’t opened the door of the shack while I was there.

  Everyone else was up when I reentered the cabin. Shea cast me a quizzical look, but did not ask where I’d been, nor did I volunteer any information. I simply began to help with breakfast preparations. Human cooking wasn’t much different from Fae cooking, despite the ridiculous gossip in Chrior that they ate their food raw, drank blood and cannibalized one another when their hunger grew too great.

  Thatcher came inside in time for the meal, and we all ate together, though I made no attempt to participate in the family’s small talk. When I was finished, I retreated to my bedroom and kept to myself the rest of the day, wanting to concentrate my energy on healing. I was recovering more slowly than I had from any previous injury, and I could feel the anxiety this bred building within my body. My attempt to cross the Road had made me acutely aware that I was in a race against time. I needed to find Zabriel and bring him to Chrior before Queen Ubiqua died; and I needed to do it before the last of my magic was gone. The Bloody Road would kill me—that much was certain. Likewise, the Sale tucked in my pack would kill me if my nature was fully human. But if I had a sufficient trace of magic left in my being, the healing power of the drink might be enough to see me safely back to Davic and the Faerie Realm. My plan was to find Zabriel, then consume the Sale, leaving my fate to the amber liquid in my flask.

  In the late afternoon, after preparations for the evening meal were well under way, Shea took me into her bedroom and offered me a choice of two dresses to wear for dinner. While I didn’t have a problem changing out of my leggings and shirt, I wondered what was behind this particular convention.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Shea, why does your family change into fancier clothing for this one meal?”

  “It’s my dad’s idea. He wants us to end the day in a more civilized fashion. And my mom says it’s a way to remind us of our manners and how we should behave in polite company.”

  I stared at her in confusion, wondering what polite company they expected to encounter out here in the wilderness.

  Ignoring my expression, Shea smiled and tossed me the dress at which I was pointing. “You might say it’s one of our little quirks.”

  She returned the garment I had rejected to the wardrobe, selected a different one for herself, and headed for the door.

  “I’ll leave you to change, and then you can join us. Don’t worry—you’ll get used to our traditions. Besides, it’s actually kind of nice to feel like a princess, however briefly.”

  Shea departed, and I lay the dress down on the bed to examine it. It had more buttons and ties, ruffles and bows, than anything I’d ever worn before. Celebratory gowns in the Faerie Realm were loose and flowing, although they were often decorated with beads or bits of colored stone.

  I scratched my head, not even sure which side of the garment was the front. Putting it on was sizing up to be more challenging than learning to read the night sky. Eventually I managed it, and I was pleased that my biggest worry hadn’t materialized—the dress wasn’t too tight around my chest. I’d pictured having to face the family the entire meal, maneuvering my body in order to hide the open back that was necessary to keep pressure off my injuries.

  I went to examine myself in the mirror on the wall, and hardly recognized the young woman staring back at me. The hair and eyes were correct, but I looked more like a doll than a living, breathing person. I combed my fingers through my loose auburn hair, then entered the main room to take my place at the table.

  This evening’s meal consisted of a delicious rabbit stew served with thick slices of bread. The younger girls talked animatedly, and the overall conversation was punctuated with murmurs of “please” and “thank you.” Maybe this custom wasn’t such a bad one, after all.

  When everyone had eaten their fill, I helped Shea with the dishes, while Elyse did some mending and Thatcher drew his younger daughters around his fireside chair to entertain them with card tricks and shadow puppets. When Elyse rose to usher the girls to bed, Shea cast several glances at her father before finally posing a question that I sensed ran counter to her better judgment.

  “Dad, will you be hunting again soon?”

  “Yes, I want to fill the shack before the weather gets harsher. Why do you ask?”

  “I want to go with you. We’ll bring back twice the game.”

  Thatcher perused his daughter while he slowly exhaled his pipe smoke, and the tension in the room ratcheted upward. Knowing my presence was no longer needed, and likely not wanted by Shea’s father, I stole to the bedroom. I left the door open a crack, however, and peered out at the argumentative pair.

  “You haven’t held a gun in months,” Thatcher asserted, giving Shea the same look I had received from him before he had locked me in the bedroom the previous morning: an assiduous stare that suggested something precious to him was being threatened. “I only taught you to use a pistol in case of an emergency. Besides, your mother needs you here.”

  “She can get by without me,” Shea replied with a touch of belligerence, taking a few steps toward him. “Maggie and Marissa are old enough to help her with the cooking and the laundry. You can easily teach me to shoot a hunting gun— I’m tired of being in the house all the time.”

  “The alternative would do more than tire you.” There was danger in Thatcher’s voice, and I had the impression he was no longer talking about hunting.

  “It might interest me. But never mind that. What is it you always say? You can’t put a price on my safety. But you can put one on my freedom. You don’t have any problem with that.”

  Agitated, Thatcher shifted position as though to get up, only to decide against it.

  “Shea, you’re not coming with me. If you’re bored, I’ll ask your mother to find more for you to do.”

  With a disgusted groan, Shea stormed toward the bedroom. Remembering at the last moment that I occupied it, she halted, her face scrunched with deliberation. Then she knocked upon the wood. I waited a few seconds before inviting her in, not wanting her to know I’d been eavesdropping.

  She closed the door and strode to the bedside table, where she struck a match to light the lamp. I watched her carefully constructed expression for signs that I could broach the topic. Then I realized she wouldn’t have come in here if she didn’t want to talk.

  “How much is the price on your freedom?” I ventured.

  Shea laughed bitterly, the emotion not really directed at me. “I knew you’d be listening. I kind of hoped you would be, if I’m honest.”

  “Then...what do you want from me?”

  “I want to know if you’ve ever thought someone—someone who’s always been right before—was wrong. About a very important matter.”

  I laughed more loudly than she had. Buying a little time, I went to my pack and unsheathed the Anlace, examining the blade. Had I ever questioned someone who was wise and powerful? Ubiqua had handed me her crown. Yet where was I now? Lost in the woods, lodging with human strangers, unable to return home. I should have trusted my aunt’s judgment when she had commanded me to stay in Chrior; I should have listened to my father and Davic. All of which made me the last person who should be giving advice on this subject.

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Do you see anyone else I can ask?”

  It was a fair point. The Mores lived an austere and solitary life. “Yes, I’ve thought that. It’s the reason I crossed the Road. It’s the reason I ended up that bloody mess your father found.”

  Shea paused, digesting this information as she chewed on a thumbnail. “Where were you headed before the hunters attack
ed you?”

  “Nowhere, potentially everywhere. I’m looking for a cousin of mine. He ran away two years ago, but his mother is dying and she wants to see him before she does.”

  I stopped, deciding Shea didn’t need to know that the stakes were higher than this, that my cousin’s mother was the Queen and that the fragile politics of two races hung in the balance.

  “What did she do to chase him away?”

  It was a blunt question, and a rather bizarre reaction to my story. Shea assumed automatically that Ubiqua was to blame for Zabriel’s flight, while I’d never considered that the Queen might be at fault. Feeling it wasn’t her business, I didn’t respond.

  “Sounds like an important task,” Shea continued, undisturbed by my evasiveness. “I hope your luck improves from here on out. Lord knows, this family has little to spare.” She laughed self-consciously, as though she had revealed something she should not. “But thank you for being honest, Anya. I haven’t had someone be straight with me for a while now. And I haven’t had a friend in even longer.”

  I didn’t bring up the fact that, discounting the time I’d spent unconscious, she’d known me for a total of three days. But then, who was I to reject her offer? She’d saved my life but a day earlier, at risk of her own. There was hardly a better foundation for building trust.

  “You can have your bed back,” I volunteered, thinking it no longer fair of me to inconvenience her. “I can sleep on the floor.”

  “No,” she said, almost recoiling at the thought. “For one thing, you’re hurt. And for another, you’re a guest. Now let me have a look at your wounds.”

  I carefully removed and hung the dinner dress, then let Shea care for my back. After her departure, I crawled into bed, though I left the lamp lit, suspecting she might claim the floor in here rather than her sisters’ room. I heard her come in a little while later, and allowed myself a tentative smile. The barriers between us were falling away. And maybe I needed a friend as much as she did.