The Keeper's Justice

THE
KEEPER’S

JUSTICE
 

 

 

 

 

Peter K. Young

 

 

A LACHLAN QUINN NOVEL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Keeper’s Justice

Copyright © 2025 by Peter K. Young

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Street Smart Resources

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Design Kat McGee (coversbykat.com)

December2025 | 1^st Edition

For Grace and Owen,

the lights of my life

 

 

He who has a reason why--can bear almost any how.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Interlude:

The Forging

Anna the Hedgewitch shook Lachlan Quinn awake at dawn on his seventeenth birthday and bade him get dressed and follow her. He was to curse himself daily in the weeks and months and years that followed that he had so blindly obeyed her.

He followed her into the Opari. He tried to ask why but found he could not speak. Hours/days? Later, they came to strange, blighted part of the forest. A mist swirled around long dead trees swathed in a lacy black fungus that smelled of rot. An errant breeze cleared the mist to reveal a huge rift in the very fundament of the world. A chasm so large that it beggared description.

“Down there lies the Murk.” Anna said. Her right hand was clenched white-knuckled on her gnarled black thorn walking stick.

She is scared. I wonder why.

The mist cleared some more to reveal a small clearing on the edge of the chasm. Three dead cedar snags stood like sentinels, their fungus leaden branches twisted skyward like arthritic fingers.

And young Lachlan Quinn saw something that made his blood run cold.

Three black gowned troll women squatted around a small campfire. A black iron teapot hung from a steel tripod. The eldest the one he recognized as Malak the Seer beckoned him forward. He obeyed; he had no choice his legs moved out of his control. He was whimpering a keening wail of terror.

Young Lachlan well remembered these beings.

There was Malak gaunt faced, blind eyes a total white, her hair a mass of lank gray tresses. Vusa the Warrior broad beamed, her arms corded with muscle, her face ribbed with scars from some ancient torture. Her eyes are innocent and gentle as a child’s. The third was the most unsettling—smaller than the others but radiating a malevolent smile was Zeba, The Healer. She held a fire charred stick maybe four feet long. It glowed and sparked with lightning.

"So," the gaunt one, Malak spoke, her voice like grinding stones, "you have come."

"Not willingly," Anna said, her mouth twisted with disgust. “The Keeper asks that you keep your bargain." With that she turned and quickly walked away. Her form quickly disappeared into the mist.

Lachlan watched her go. Stuck dumb with terror now, he whispered, a tiny whisper “Mistress Anna, please don’t leave me with them…”

"Up," commanded Zeba the Healer. Her coal-ember eyes held no warmth, her mouth grinned.

"What—" Lachlan began, scrambling to his feet.

"Run, boy." She pointed to a path that led down into the chasm.

“I don’t understand…”

Zeba tapped him with the black rod. Pain flared. Pain like he’d never felt before. "Run,"

"I don't understand…"

She struck again.

He fell curled up to avoid the stick.

She struck again and again. The pain was horrendous.

"Run, little rabbit, run."

He got up and ran.

What followed was a time out of a nightmare. The three gave chase like hounds of hell, their footsteps somehow thunderous, shaking the very ground spurring him to flee pell-mell down the narrow trail into depths. They moved with impossible speed, sometimes running on all fours like beasts, shrieking and bounding through the rot-decay smelling air.

He ran until his legs gave out, then crawled until his hands bled, then dragged himself forward on his belly through mud that reeked of rot. When exhausted unconsciousness finally claimed him, they stepped out of the mist and kindled the fire, set up the rack for tea and a kettle of delicious smelling stew.

They communed silently as he ate. Then he slept, sodden with exhaustion. Zeba healed him of his cuts and scratches and bruised muscles. The other two whispered lessons inside his sleeping brain, reliving the day’s chase. Correcting his form. Pointing out dangers of the flora and fauna he had encountered in his headlong descent in the abyss.

The next day was more of the same. The first collapse came early into the afternoon. A minor wounding, a scratch from a purple bush he brushed against. A hidden thorn had pierced his hand, in an ordinary place a minor thing, but not in this place. This thorn was from a hag berry bush and thorn injected a thousand microscopic seeds deep into flesh. They sprouted. He remembered the cold creeping in, the darkness taking him, and then the excruciating pull back to life as Zeba worked her healing magic.

The healing was agony.

The next morning came again the pain from the lash of the rod.

“Run, little rabbit, run," laughed the healer.

And the days melded together.

His sleep times were taken up with their lessons. They taught him movement. Correcting his clumsy body control. Slowly and surely. Stretching muscles and tendons. toning them as the weeks slipped into months. His running became fluid and smooth. The relentless chase morphed now into a parkour chase of leaps and landings, crawling and climbing.

He now had no future, no past, only an endless now of pain and chase. The one thing he looked toward like it was every Christmas rolled into one was the end of the day sight of that black teapot and cast-iron kettle with its fragrant magical tea and soul nurturing thick stew.

But the next morning…

"Run little rabbit."

He fell a thousand times. Broke bones. Drowned more than once.”

The magic blasted flora and fauna of the Murk was the worst. Half of the plant life was carnivorous, the dim light made photosynthesis sketchy at best. There were fast-twitch vines as thick as a human thigh that snatched and strangled. Others used a variety of fast acting poisons to stun and digest their prey.

His daily challenge was that these same plants were his source of food and water during the day. Chewing on the leaves of the cobra-flower vine gave quick energy but the thorns were venomous. Roots and tubers were his source of clean water but their flower’s pollen killed. The first week, he’d taken a chance and sipped a handful of water a limpid pool. His death that afternoon was a agony of bleeding from every orifice.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?" he pleaded, a hundred times, a thousand times, for an answer.

"Malak the Seer finally replied. “The brain is a stubborn beast. It holds onto its illusions, its comfortable lies. It tells you to stop, to rest, to fear. But pain is the hammer that shatters those lies. It forces you beyond what you believe is possible. You have no choice but to break and learn. You cannot quit. We will not allow you to die. Your only path forward is through. We build you up so you can endure our teachings."

"How long?" he whispered.

"Feel free to keep whining, little rabbit.” Zeba the Healer laughed. “Your endless complaints are the most fun I’ve had for ages.”

She tapped him with the black rod again and laughed as he screamed from the agony washed through him.

“Run little rabbit, Run.

The months passed. He changed. His muscles hardened, his heart and lungs adapted, his hand foot eye coordination kept reaching new levels. Pain, meanwhile, had moved in to stay. It curled around his bones like a familiar cat, whispered sweet nothings in his ear as he ran across fields of razor grass, sang him lullabies as poison burned through his blood. He learned to welcome it. Pain meant he was still alive, still moving. Then came a day where he found himself laughing as he ran. His mind had been balanced on the knife edge of madness… then fell off

For months he was fully mad. That didn’t seem to bother his teachers. They still chased him still whispered lessons to him at night. One week he’d go to sleep and a week later he discovered he was thinking in Dvergrish, the language of the dwarves, the next in Ghukliak and the next in High Alfar or old Persian.

Early on, he tried suicide. Slashed at his throat with a shard of flint he’d found while digging out a water tuber.

Zeba healed him, then whispered, “Little Rabbit, you cannot escape us. You are ours as long as we will it. The only way out is through.”

Sometime later, maybe a year maybe two years came a breakthrough. When it came it was intoxicating. Endless energy. His stumbling movements became graceful, fluid. He moved though the dim light of the Murk like a ghost. Moving through the chaotic tangle of swamp and forest with ease.

That wasn’t the end…that was the beginning.

Then began the combat lessons…

 

Chapter 2

Rose

The big white school bus had "Church of The Blessed" written on the side. Eleven-year-old Rose O'Connell watched it slowly navigate down the rutted gravel driveway. Her thin shoulders were hunched beneath a blue-green sweater, two sizes too big. She was tall for her age, with blue eyes set in a freckled face. Those eyes now held more than a trace of anxiety. Change was coming—and change for a system kid was never a good thing. Ever since her mother had died three years ago, life had taught her over and over to expect the worst. She was pretty sure she could figure things out, but she worried about the others in her little group.

Junie, a red-haired six-year-old and the youngest, hid behind her. She still had the remnants of a black eye that this place's "mommy" had given her the day they arrived at the group home. Her sin was sneaking some milk to feed a tiny, one-eyed, mewing feral kitten that had wandered into the backyard.

Izzy, the next youngest, stood beside her. As usual, her brown eyes were remote, turned inward. Her olive skin and raven-black hair showed her Hispanic ancestry. She had just turned eight on this day, although none of the others knew to celebrate. She was a quiet little girl who retreated to some private place in her mind that the outside world couldn't touch.

The fourth member of their little group was a boy named Sam. He was about Rose's age, she guessed. He didn't talk and had never uttered a peep since the three girls had met him six months ago.

Fate had thrown the four together. Now, they were firmly a family who looked out for each other. Three large black garbage bags at his side held all their earthly possessions.

They were being moved again.

Rose gasped as a man dressed all in black stepped out. She turned to Sam, her eyes wide.

"I think that's the Preacher Man," she whispered.

Sam nodded back, his eyes wide with dread. Tales of the Preacher Man were whispered in the night among the group home kids far and wide. The story was that kids who went off with him were never seen again.

Now he was here for them.

The man strode toward them. His eyes swept over the children and then turned to their latest mommy, Mrs. Erickson.

"It's a great day for the Lord's work, Sister Louise," he said. Rose noted that his broad white smile didn't reach his eyes. There was also something odd about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

He was still talking. "A great day for the Lord's charity."

"God bless," the puffy-faced blonde woman replied. She glared down at Rose. "These four children act out like the spawn of Satan, but they are God's children all the same. They will surely benefit from the discipline they receive at your school."

"Yes, the Church of the Blessed will take good care of these lambs. They aren't the first and won't be the last to have fallen into Satan's grasp. I thank you for your service, Sister. I need to be on my way. The Lord's work never ends."

The woman cleared her throat. "Pastor Bob, there is the matter of payment for their upkeep."

"Absolutely," he said and handed her an envelope. "Tending to orphaned children is not without its cost. We agreed on $1,500, correct?"

She nodded and eagerly reached for the envelope.

"You will give the number a call when you're ready again?"

"Yes, I will," she said. "But it will be some months until my sister can move some of her overflow down here."

"Come along, children. We have miles to go this day."

Rose held onto Izzy's and Junie's hands and searched Pastor Bob's face for more clues to what he was like. By now, she knew adults came in all types. Kids in the system soon learned to tell whether it was going to be indifference or beatings that blew up out of nowhere. The flicker of malice she saw in Pastor Bob's eyes made her anxious. Despite herself, a whimper escaped her lips. Sam heard her and awkwardly patted her shoulder, then squeezed it reassuringly.

The man gave a curt nod and walked to the bus, obviously expecting them to follow.

Rose and Sam picked up the three black plastic garbage bags. The man ushered them into the back of the bus. Inside, she could see that the seats had been taken out and the interior had been converted into a camper van. There were two bunk beds and a couch in the middle, along with a bathroom in the back. When they were seated on the couch, he turned and addressed them:

"Sit there and listen up, children. You address me as Pastor Bob. There's a bathroom in the back if you need to go. There are some bottles of water in that cooler if you get thirsty. If you behave, we'll stop for supper in a couple of hours at a McDonald's. If you're bad—then you won't eat. Keep being bad and see if I won't whip you with the Lord’s wrath. Just sit back here quietly, and things will be hunky-dory. We're going on a long trip, so make yourselves comfortable back here and be quiet." He made his way to the front and climbed into the driver's seat.

"Story?" whispered Junie hopefully.

Rose nodded. "Get the story blanket out of my bag. Izzy, get everyone some waters. Sam, put the rest of our things under the beds." Soon, everybody was organized with a bottle of water each.

"Cris-cross applesauce," said Junie. She'd learned the cris-cross-applesauce story-time signal from the one and only preschool day she'd attended before she showed up at her first group home. The others obediently crossed their legs and waited for the story.

Story time was the precious routine that bound them together. Months ago, when little Junie had spied Sam shyly listening by the door to their room, she immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room and under the cozy blankets to listen with them. He'd been included ever since. They all cuddled together like kittens and settled down to listen to Rose read about Dumbo, the circus elephant, who could fly.

The big bus drove through the afternoon and into the night.

The hours passed. Late afternoon of the second day, the man pulled the bus into a decrepit strip mall in Portland, Oregon. He opened the doors and called out to the children.

"Okay, we're here for the night. I have some things to do, so you're going to stay with some people I know. They'll feed you and give you a place to sleep. Keep your mouths shut. These people don't hold with noisy children."

Pastor Bob led the children off the bus and across a parking lot to a store front with painted-over windows. He knocked, and a woman led them into a dimly lit room filled with other children. Some were whispering, some weeping quietly, and some sat with arms around their knees, staring blankly into space.

Sam stepped to the front and led them over to a spot next to a wall. He stood a little in front and showed a stolen steak knife half-hidden in his hand as a warning in case any of the bigger kids came at them. During their time together, he and Rose, both experienced in the hard ways of the system, had wordlessly formed an effective team to care for the two youngest. They waited to see what was next.

An unshaven man with an enormous belly came into the room with a large pot of what smelled like chili. The white-haired woman who had met them at the door followed, pushing a cart that held bowls and bottled water.

The woman yelled, "Dinner time. Line up. No shoving or you'll get nothing. Misbehave, and you'll get the belt."

One boy didn't listen. He kept crying for his mama. The man casually grabbed him and slapped him. "Be quiet or I'll give you something to cry about. Now get in line."

The children obediently lined up, some of the bigger kids shoving to get in front. Rose placed the two youngest between her and Sam. One boy tried to shove in front of them but quickly retreated after Sam showed the knife. The others gave the four a wide berth after that.

After they had all been served food and a bottle of water, the white-haired woman lit a cigarette and watched them eat. Once, she intervened with a curse and a slap when a red-haired girl tried to take another's bowl.

After they had all eaten, the woman directed a couple of girls to collect the bowls, and she wheeled the cart out.

The door locked with a click.

Junie looked around anxiously. Sam noticed and signaled to Rose that he was leaving. He stood up and explored the room, finally locating a bathroom in the back hallway. He came back and signed to her about the bathroom. Rose stood up, slid their bags next to him, and took the two girls to do their business.

Later, the white-haired woman unlocked the door and came in with the cart, this time stacked high with blankets that smelled of mothballs. Once more, the kids lined up to get a blanket. The room was filled with the murmur of kids settling down.

"Story?" Junie whispered as she and Izzy cuddled together under a blanket.

Rose nodded, reached into the bag, and pulled out the book. She settled back to read in a clear voice.

The other kids heard and edged closer to listen. Soon, the room was silent except for the sobbing of one boy as Rose's voice told a once-upon-a-time story of a girl named Cinderella.

During the night, Rose woke to Izzy crying.

"I peed," she whispered. "Cold."

Rose hugged her and dug into one of the black garbage bags for a spare set of pants and underwear. She got Izzy changed and handed the wet things to Sam, who took them into the bathroom to rinse out. A few minutes later, they were all asleep again.

An old woman with gray hair and a mean face woke them all before dawn. She was with a black lady in a calico dress. She had a big gold hoop earring in each ear.

"Like the Bible says, it's time to separate the sheep from the goats," the old woman announced. "You kids line up."

The sleepy children lined up. The black lady walked down the row of children, waving a forked stick over each child's head. Seemingly at random, she separated them into two lines. Rose and the girls were placed in the smallest line. She motioned Sam to the other.

Rose and Sam stared at each other, wide-eyed with dread. He quickly passed the steak knife to her and moved, head down, to the back of the other line.

Junie watched him go and broke into sobs that Rose quickly shushed. It wouldn't do to call attention to them, but she felt the same. Her eyes prickled with tears. She quickly brushed them away.

The woman pointed to their line. "You lot. Gather your stuff and go with Pastor Bob. He's waiting for you outside by the motor home."

A screaming scuffle broke out in the back of the room between two boys. The fat man quickly intervened with slaps and punches and sent the boys off into their respective lines.

Rose smothered a smile of pure relief when she saw Sam had rejoined their line.

She'd learned to deal with trauma by growing calluses around her feelings. Few illusions marred her thinking. Experience had baked pessimism deep into her bones. But Sam's quick thinking gave her a glimmer of optimism. Maybe, just maybe, things were looking up. She quickly suppressed the hope out of habit—but a tiny bit still lingered.

Chapter 3

Quinn

Lachlan Quinn was sitting on the porch of Keeper House, staring moodily at the ten-acre wildflower meadow that served as the front yard. The morning sun peeked over the old growth cedar trees that lined the five-acre meadow fronting the ancient log cabin. Four whitetail deer slipped out of the field of wildflowers and native rye grass and into the safety of the dense brush of salmonberries and blackberries to care for their fawns and doze the day away. The air was full of birdsong and the buzz of bees at their morning work. Fat gray squirrels chattered in the background. A woodpecker hammered away on a hemlock snag. Behind him, snatches of brownie-song sounded from inside the house as Mrs. Periwinkle and her brood went about their daily tasks of caring for Keeper House.

"You’re turning into a whiny shitbird, Doc. Get yourself unfucked or some being’s gonna harvest your fobbity-ass."

“Aye, aye, Gunny. Getting myself unfucked,” mumbled Lachlan Quinn.

The past few months had seen him having imaginary chats with all sorts of people from his past as he drank his morning coffee and greeted the dawn. Quinn knew deep in his bones that he was slowly morphing into someone remote, untouchable. He didn’t like it, but he was powerless to stop it.

He knew he should be as happy as hell; he had a regular, peaceful life. He had zero kicks coming. There had been a pleasant month doing the finish work on Sven, the software millionaire’s “fishing cabin” on the Stillaguamish River five miles outside of town. The six-thousand-square-foot log cabin was a marvel of luxury.

Another good couple of months had been spent building and outfitting his new woodworking/metal-crafting shop until it was the envy of the Emory crafters.

He shifted his weight and winced, favoring the bruise on his side where the Sylvan combat master had landed a vicious kick during this morning’s sparring session. Months earlier, the slender being, no doubt sent by Vuza the Warrior, had emerged from the Opari to silently resume his training. The last time the Three Troll Women had come to him, she had reprimanded him about the degradation of his physical and mental fitness. He knew it was pointless to argue with her, so for the last year, he’d religiously followed the brutal physical regimen she’d set up for him: week-long runs through Opari, every night pacing along the complicated fairy labyrinth behind the house, forcing his way through the painful mental veils the troll women had spelled into it to test his concentration, topped off with hours of combat with hand and saber. The resultant exhaustion should have helped him sleep better.

It didn’t.

He was bored and on edge at the same time. All this exercise was preparation for something that he had no doubt was going to be awful.

Last year’s events still weighed heavily on his mind. He couldn’t shake the feeling that one of the loose ends he’d left unresolved in Oldtown was sure to come back and bite his ass.

And he missed the cheerful chatter of Charlie and Katrinka.

Thus, the brooding.

Thus, the mental image of the Gunny kicking his ass for being in a funk he couldn’t escape.

His new shadow, a big yellow lab, returned from her morning adventure, drank noisily from her bowl, settled on the porch out of reach, and gazed at him with soulful eyes.

A month ago, Quinn had come out of Opari after his run to find six sprites shrieking with glee as they hag-rode her. The big dog was close to death from exhaustion when he intervened and sent the chastened sprites on their way. He had carried her back to the house, soaked her down good with lukewarm water, set a big dish of water beside her, and watched her carefully to ensure she would recover. Recover she did after a couple of hours. She’d been hanging around ever since. Now she seemed to spend her days studying him.

A prickle of unease interrupted his bout of introspection. Some being was focused on him. After years of the troll women’s training in the Murk, a part of his mind constantly accessed the environment. He knew instantly when he was being watched—a fact that had saved his marines from ambushes more than once back in the day.

This morning, the culprits were two young boggles peering out from Opari’s border.

Boggles were the size of grizzly bears, dark and hirsute, with characteristic huge ears, large yellow eyes above hooked noses, and sharpened teeth. They were the largest and most vicious of the seven goblin species.

He relaxed when he saw it was Ozz and Oild.

Quinn motioned for them to come out. The pair, breathless and white-eyed, limped out of the tangle of blackberry and vine oak that bordered the forest. Oild’s arm was obviously broken. Ozz had a bite mark on his right leg that was oozing blood.

“Master,” Oild’s whistle-clicks were low and raspy as he tried to catch his breath, “They attacked us. They even killed the babies. They killed the old chief and cut out his heart!”

“Sit you down, and I will tend to your hurts,” Quinn whistle-clicked.

He walked to his pickup and grabbed his latest purchase, a Black Hawk medical pack. He set Oild's arm and splinted it. Then he washed the bite on Ozz’s leg with saline solution and slapped a pressure bandage on the wound. Both beings would heal quickly with no ill effects. Boggles were tough.

“Who did this thing?”

“It were Kobolds,” Ozz said as Quinn set and splinted Oild’s arm. “Beings angry. Foaming at its mouths.”

“Kobolds?” Quinn asked skeptically. “How could kobolds attack the Tribe?”

Kobolds were relatives of the hobs and feral brownies that lived along the borders of Opari. They were shy beings who lived on small animals and insects—extremely unlikely beings to attack their larger cousins. Raccoons don’t attack bears.

“They were in frenzy, master.”

Quinn’s green eyes narrowed. He stood. “Lead me to your camp.”

He rarely interfered with the lives of beings who dwelled in the Opari, but he owed Ozz and Oild, and his gut was telling him something was off.

As always, the chaotic green magic of the forest that was the Goddess Opari snared Quinn’s mind as soon as he entered. Mixed smells of sweet fern and loam immediately soothed away his dour thoughts. The colossal life force of the Goddess—millions of tiny rustlings and whisperings—sent the tales of their tiny lives deep into the root of his brain. Another thousand million voices sang greetings to him, pulling at his spirit to join and go adventuring with them.

He could sit and spend the rest of his days happily exploring Her mysteries and being healed by Her grace.

But Her voice’s song was odd this day, as it had been for months. Too eager. The madness of the manna surge.

“At last. You’ve come to us at last.”

The dragon’s whip symbiote in his arm twisted in terror and dived deep into him to hide as it felt the wildness of her season.

The Other sat back in the corner of his mind and regarded Her presence with profound suspicion.

Opari’s quincentenary pollination event was in full flow. A hurricane of manna swirled out from the vast infinity of her.

Quinn fought his way free from her seductive grasp. He spent a couple of beats finding the perfect balance point between detachment and singularity. Finally, the overwhelming data that had poured into his senses from the environment coalesced into information his mind could use.

The yellow dog sat by his side and watched him. Oddly, she seemed to have no fear of the alien forest.

Quinn motioned to the two boggles, who were dancing with impatience, to lead on.

The usual gaggle of hidden watchers followed their progress. As they moved deeper into the geo-temporal chaos that made up the Opari, his fingers were constantly busy signaling greetings to some and warnings to others. He was alert for any newly arrived predators who might not be aware of him and attack.

The environment changed. At first, there had been the familiar, clean mossy smells of the northwest rainforest. Ferns and mosses were everywhere. Shade-loving flowering plants like trillium and foxglove bloomed out of mossy beds. Masses of huckleberry grew out of fallen trees. Gradually, as they went on, the vegetation changed to a tropical jungle. Greenhouse floral smells gave way to the smell of decay. Water dripped everywhere. As they pressed on further, the darkness deepened. The canopy far overhead blocked out much of the light. The sounds changed as well. A cacophony of mad shrieks and giggles from the dryads and nymphs who inhabited the upper levels of the canopy mixed with the hum of a billion insects.

The two boggles occasionally stopped and tracked in a large circle around danger: a grove of carnivorous plants. Another detour took them around a grove of fruit trees covered in thousands of palm-sized red spiders.

Quinn absently registered all this at the back of his mind while he mentally pulled at the puzzle of the kobold’s attack. What would arouse the usually timid kobolds into a frenzy? All goblin-kind were capable of the state of mindless violence that was frenzy, but it was extremely rare in kobolds. Sensible retreat was their go-to response to threats.

After an hour of travel, they pushed through some thick brush and stepped out onto the beach of one of Opari’s vast inland lakes. The remnants of the boggle band lay on the shore, dully watching as two undines, probably attracted by the smell of blood, pulled a squalling wounded young male twice their size into the lake. The two predators were females, five feet tall, with the typical bone-white skin of new mothers. Their hair was moss green and hung short of pointed elf-like ears. Gill slits lined their throats.

Their huge yellow eyes tracked Quinn. As he neared, they snarled, showing yellow, shark-like teeth, but dropped their prey and disappeared into the green water with a splash. This time of year, spawning season, female undines were driven mad by ravenous hunger. You didn’t swim in this part of Opari’s lakes and rivers unless you had a death wish.

Quinn dragged the wounded youngling away from the water and knelt to tend to his wounds.

Ozz and Oild moved through the wounded instinctively, carrying out a primitive triage, calling Quinn over to tend to the more maimed.

Things were not as bad as they had breathlessly told him, but bad enough. Four of the band had died, including the old chief. Two tiny infants lay twisted next to the tree line, their little necks broken. Their mothers sat helplessly wailing beside them. Five males and two females would be a while recovering. The rest suffered cuts and broken bones.

They described the kobolds’ attack: armed with sticks, they emerged from the forest and attacked the band as it was spread out, eating the morning’s forage.

It was a puzzle. Boggles and kobolds usually ignored each other. They were typical goblins; if a band happened upon a single being, bad things happened. But Opari was too vast and resource-rich to risk physical damage in a meaningless squabble over territories.

Something was strange.

He sighed.

Better find out.

The kobold band left a trail a child could follow. Another odd thing. Like the boggles, kobolds normally moved through the jungle with liquid ease, leaving very little trace of their passing. This trail was as broad as a highway, littered with leaves and broken branches, footprints, and blood traces. The band had not escaped without some wounded.

Quinn and the yellow dog moved swiftly. As they went deeper, the jungle changed to temperate hardwood forest, like one would find in the Appalachians.

He finally came upon the band resting along the bank of a slow-moving, murky river. Most were sleeping, sprawled out in an odd fashion. Two elder males slept with their mouths slack, snoring. They lay perilously close to a fire ant colony. The rest were too close to the banks of the river to be safe.

Quinn dragged the two away from the fire ant mound and up under the shade of a massive beech tree, then settled down next to the yellow dog to wait for someone to wake up.

An elderly female was the first to awaken. Her bloodshot eyes widened in terror when she spotted him.

Quinn whistle-clicked. “Be at ease, grandmother. I mean you no harm. I have a question for you, and I’ll be on my way. Your kind were in frenzy. What causes it?”

“It is magic potion, Master. The half-bloods reward us. The potion makes the tribe strong. They give us gift because we lead them down the trails out of Opari into the Murk. We been doing that because they do not know the way.”

That minor exchange apparently exhausted the female. She fell asleep or into torpor—Quinn couldn’t tell which. She seemed healthy enough, if malnourished. The whole band looked half-starved. Whatever potion or drug had definitely interfered with their normal foraging habits.

Quinn continued to wait until the gray-faced female woke again.

“Grandmother, you know our Mother does not allow medicine like that in her realm. Did you forget?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“It were only once, Master. The tall one with one eye said that the goddess would not care this once.” She brightened. “The kobold grew strong. Did not need to hide when boggles hunt.”

“Where do you meet the one-eyed half-blood?”

“The tall one with one eye waits by the grandfather tree where the big fire was three times ago. Our outliers tell us when he and the others come.”

The concept of exact time was a modern human construct. Other hominid races viewed time, if they thought of it at all, much more vaguely. Both the kobolds and the boggles noted time as the changing of seasons. Quinn knew that a “time” was when the leaves of their home camp’s big chestnut tree returned after winter shedding.

“What else about the tall one with one eye?”

“He an Asrai and has a scar on his throat. Yes, the tall one eye does.”

After Quinn tended to the scrapes and bites of the tribe, he and the yellow dog walked the trails back to Keeper House, reflecting on the monumental stupidity and greed of anyone who dared the wrath of the Mother Goddess. There were far easier ways to bring slaves into Alfheim. There were lots of thinnings that connected the realm directly to Oldtown or Earth. Why take the risk of passing through the Murk? Then he wondered if maybe the destination was the Murk.

Odd

The grandfather tree was an ancient grove of clonal aspens that overlooked Lake Chelan in eastern Washington. There was a portal to Oldtown’s Southmarket district by that lake. It was rarely used. That meant the wolf-kin were involved. That mother-damned Alpha again. He wondered if Niamh was aware of it.

What a clusterfuck this was going to be.

Quinn and the yellow dog came out of Opari to find his best friend, Gus Hope, and his mother, Marigold, sitting in rocking chairs on the Keeper House’s porch. A tiny table sat between them, holding a pot of tea and a platter of scones and muffins.

Brownie hospitality.

He smiled. Mistress Marigold had been one of his first mentors—one of Emory’s preeminent crafters—a genius baker. She had a shop in North Emory called Marigold’s Coffees, Teas, and Baked Goods. Her baked goods were known far and wide, with brides coming all the way from Olympia to have her craft their wedding cakes.

A scowl twisted her normally cheerful features.

Quinn gave an inward groan as he picked up a feeling of intense smugness from Mistress Periwinkle, who lurked just inside the doorway.

“Drat that female,” Marigold was saying as she savored a scone. “How does she get those three flavors to marry?” Then she sniffed, “You’re not fooling anybody, Mistress. I will match this. You just wait and see.”

A mocking giggle sounded from within.

“Come on, Mom. Settle down,” Gus whispered. He called out louder, “Thank you for the refreshments, Mistress Periwinkle. Hey, Lan. Long time no see.”

“Hey, Hopeless,” Quinn grinned. “Good morning, Mistress. It’s been a while. Nice to see you.”

She jumped up and gave him a hug.

“Lachlan Quinn. You look like a bear just out of hibernation. When’s the last time you got a haircut and shave?” She shot a sly look at the doorway. “You’re far too thin. Have you been eating? You need to come down to the bakery and get some good, wholesome food. I’ll fatten you up.”

An outraged shriek came from within the house.

“Okay, stop with World War Three. I need to live here. What made you leave your bakery and come all the way out here to visit me?”

Right away, he noticed how drawn her features were. Her fingers twisted and twined on her lap. It was disturbing. He’d never seen her like this.

“Are things that bad in town?” he asked softly.

“I’m afraid so, Lachlan. The Crafter’s committee asked me to come up and talk to you. Things are unraveling in town,” she said. “The covens are fighting worse than ever. The McNeils are leaderless. Althea, who should be providing a firm hand to the Sabinas, sits in her garden and mopes. The damnable manna surge the seers have long predicted has arrived. We crafters are stuck in the middle.”

“Surely you are not asking me to get involved? I’m not stupid enough to get involved with the witches’ crazy political games.”

“Of course not. All you would do is add to the chaos. This calls for subtlety and intelligence.”

Quinn didn’t know whether to be insulted or amused. Mistress Marigold was usually the soul of tact, masterfully getting her way with ease.

“Okay,” he said. “Why are you here? What would you like me to do?”

“I want you to go down to Seattle and talk some sense into Katherine. It may be that the oddball coven that Elisabeth Van Horn has spelled into existence will help counter the chaos. She has a reputation as a peerless harmonizer. She might be just what we need to settle things down and bring some order back here. Honestly, the crafters are not eager for change, but we’re even more afraid that the Red Queens will come and we’ll have a bunch of strangers running things. They almost took over last year.”

“Okay, but I don’t understand why you think Lizzy would get involved, and it seems to me I heard that the Sabinas banished Katie.”

“Don’t worry about her. Katherine knew what she was getting into when she broke the covenant. The Sabinas had no choice. A cyfamod binding is forbidden blood magic.”

“Mistress,” he said, exasperated by her illogical request, “Why the hell would they get involved then? I know Lizzy well. She’s an academic. A nice, shy kind of person. Why would she come up here and get involved in a war with all those rabid, power-hungry bit… women?”

“I don’t know, Lan,” she said. “We just want you to go talk to Katherine. She needs to know how bad things are. After all, she’s the one groomed to be Althea’s successor. Maybe she could figure out what has to be done. Please, Lan, would you just go down and talk to them?”

Quinn knew he could no more say no to the woman who was like a mother to him than he could fly.

“All right. I’ll go. But I don’t know why she’d listen to me.”

Her smile was like sunrise.

“Thank you, Lachlan. Come on, Augustus, I’ve got to get back to work.”

She gave him a hug and, loftily ignoring the snarky giggle from the lurking Mistress Periwinkle, climbed into Gus’s truck and left.

A half hour later, Quinn was ready to leave. He had the door to his pickup open when he saw the yellow dog sitting on the porch, watching him.

He sighed and opened the rear door. “Okay, you can come if you want to.”

In a flash, she was off the porch and into the truck.

As he got in and started up the truck, the dog’s odor hit him. She’d been rolling in something exotic.

“Sweet Mother, you stink. Like it or not, we’re going to get you clean. I’m not riding clear down to Seattle with you stinking up my truck.”

The yellow dog, panting happily, ignored him and stuck her nose out the window.

He pulled out and headed down to Emory.

On the surface, Emory, Washington, looked like every other small town in America, but underneath, things were more complicated. George Emory, a prospector who had struck it rich in the Virginia City gold rush, had founded it. He showed up later in Seattle in the 1880s with a high-society wife named Adelia and built her a mansion on Capitol Hill. He immediately looked around for opportunities and found one in the wilderness that was the Robe Valley. There was money to be made in the logging business, and there were rumors of gold up the valley at a place called Monte Cristo. He immediately set to building a town for his loggers.

Adelia was the one who stirred in the oddness. Like many Victorian women of the time, she was wild for the occult. By the end of the century, the town had attracted a colorful assortment of astrologers, palm readers, and fortune tellers. Among them was a certain Abigail Goodfellow, late of Lily Dale, NY. Unlike the other faux spiritualists, Abigail was the real deal, a 12th-circle witch-crafter. She came to town to check on a rumor of the magic and immediately felt the effects of the Opari Thinning—a rent in the fabric of reality that leaked an unimaginable amount of manna, or spirit power, as it was called back then.

Abigail immediately sent word back to her sisters. No one noticed when actual witches started trickling in soon after.

Nowadays, the town was full of chanters and crafters. The chanters were the witch-crafters who could use the wyrd and the manna to bend reality.

The other group were crafters. They spurned the use of magic spell-craft. Instead, they used the manna to put their minds into a flow state—to achieve a perfect blend of concentration and craftsmanship that raised their art to elite levels.

If you were lucky enough to wear a pair of cobbler Elijah Grove’s custom-made elk-skin boots, your feet would think they’d died and gone to heaven. The same when you walked down the aisle in one of Annie O’Brian’s wedding dresses designed and sewn especially for you.

While the witches distrusted him from the very start, the crafters embraced the shy Lachlan Quinn (age nine) with open arms. He spent the next eight years of his life being educated and working part-time for many of them. His foster father, Cayden MacLeish, had firm ideas about how a boy should be educated.

Quinn pulled into the parking lot of Sam’s Pet Grooming. Samantha Bennett was one of Mandy Teague’s friends. Quinn had known her since grade school.

He opened the door for the dog.

“Come on and behave yourself. This nice lady is a friend of mine.”

The big lab jumped out and looked around nervously, but she followed him into the shop willingly enough.

A petite blonde at the counter welcomed him with a mischievous smile.

“Wow, Lachlan Quinn comes to visit little old me. I don’t do humans, even ones that look like you. What look are you going for—grizzly bear in springtime?”

Quinn grinned and scratched his beard. “Hey, Sammie. Could you work your magic on her? She just needs a quick scrub. None of that other stuff you do for poodles and the like.”

“We are a SALON. We do not do quick scrubs. Come on, honey, let’s get you away from this peasant and get you fixed up.”

Samantha’s talent was like Mandy’s. Animals instinctively trusted and liked her. The dog looked a question at Quinn.

“Go on, she won’t hurt you.”

She put her head down and walked over to stand beside her.

“Who’s a good girl?” Samantha stroked behind her ears. “This’ll take an hour. Why don’t you go next door and let my sister see if she could make you a bit less feral so you don’t scare the tourists?”

“Oh, I’ll get a haircut later. We’re on our way to…”

She was already on the phone.

“Susanne, do you have any openings? I got Lachlan Quinn over at my place looking like a bear just out of hibernation, and I don’t do humans.”

She listened for a minute, then laughed. “He needs a haircut to be in polite society. Oh, and shave the ratty-looking beard off as well.”

Samantha hung up. “She can get you in right now. She’s got a new girl working there. You’d be a perfect whistle-wetter for her.”

“You’ve gotten a lot more bossy than I remember. Just so you know, it’s not an attractive quality.”

She laughed. “You know dang well I’ve always been bossy. That’s the only way I got you to kiss me that one homecoming. You were so dumb you had to be told.”

Quinn liked most of the crafter community and did the best he could to fit in. So he just naturally stuck out his tongue at the sassy blonde and went to do what he was told.

“Sweet Mother Lan, My sister wasn’t kidding,” Suzanne Malone, the owner of the Hair Hut, said. “You do look like a bear. When’s the last time you got a haircut?”

“A while ago.” The glyphs incised on Quinn’s back were tingling in response to the magic of the stylists as they dove in and out of the Flow. “Can you just give me a quick trim and send me on my way? I’m not going to a wedding.”

“Hmm. Let’s go back and see Jenny. She’s my newest stylist.”

Jenny proved to be a tall, raven-haired, blue-eyed girl in her early twenties.

She gave Quinn an apprehensive look when she took in his appearance and size.

“What would you like me to do, sir?” she squeaked.

Quinn sighed. “I have no idea. Just give me a trim. Something that’s easy to take care of. I ain’t no model.”

“Jenny,” Suzanne said, “go ahead and give him a brush cut. A little shaggy on top. And shave that ridiculous beard. And don’t let his size bother you. Lan’s a perfectly nice guy. He doesn’t bite. Unfortunately.”

“Goddess, save me from bossy women,” Quinn muttered under his breath and grinned as he saw Jenny let out an involuntary giggle and relax.

“Okay, we’ll start with a wash and go from there.”

Soon she was deep in her flow, and Quinn closed his eyes and relaxed, enjoying the rare feeling of being taken care of.

When she finished, she swept off the sheet with a flourish. “There you go, sir.” She gave him a shy smile. Then did a double take as he stood up. “Oh my,” she squeaked, “you’re him, aren’t you?”

Quinn gave her a puzzled look. “Yes, I’m me.”

The women in the back were now whispering as they looked at one stylist’s iPad.

Strange.

Quinn shrugged and walked to the front of the shop.

Another of the stylists was showing Suzanne something on her iPad.

She burst out laughing.

“How much do I owe you?”

“On the house, Lan,” she giggled. “I didn’t realize you were a famous model.”

Quinn gave her a puzzled look.

She handed him the iPad.

He saw himself on someone’s Instagram—a collage of pictures of him installing the white oak molding in the kitchen of Sven’s fishing cabin. He remembered the day. It had been hot, and all he had on were a pair of shorts and a Seattle Mariners baseball cap.

“No, no, no, no, this can’t be. They can’t do this, can they?” Then he had a thought. Goddamn Sierra. She’d been there that day, ostensibly for a modeling job for one of Sven’s computer games.

Fucking Sierra.

“How do I get this taken down?”

Suzanne was still giggling. “No idea, Mr. Hot Carpenter. Once a post is there, it’s there forever.”

“You’re also on a poster,” Jenny said, blushing bright red. “I bet you’re on a wall of half the sororities down at U Dub. Everybody loves the muscles and the exotic tattoos on your back, and the cool dragon sleeve on your arm is something else.”

“Lanie, you’re famous.” Suzanne was having way too much fun with this.

“Sweet Mother, save me,” Quinn growled. He handed the young stylist two twenty-dollar bills and stomped out. Suzanne’s laughter followed him out the door.

He walked next door to get the yellow dog, but she wasn't ready, so he went back outside to call Elisabeth and warn her he was stopping by.

When she answered, he heard singing in the background.

“Hey, Lizzy, it's Lan. You guys having a party down there?”

“Hello, Lan. Yes, we are. We’re having a friendship bracelet party. Those Taylor Swift concert tickets you got us were a big hit—a perfect birthday present for little Kat.”

“Excellent. I’m glad you guys had fun. Anyway, I’m on my way to Oldtown, but first I need to stop by and talk to you guys.”

“That’s great news. The girls have missed you so much. Why have you stayed away so long?”

“Well, you know I’ve been busy.”

Katrinka had sobbed her little heart out when he left her there last year. He didn’t think he could stand a repeat.

Elisabeth’s silence spoke volumes about his crappy excuse.

“Anyway, I’m coming down right now.”

“The girls will be thrilled to see you. Bring ice cream.” She disconnected.

Ten minutes later, Quinn was back in the shop picking up his now sweet-smelling dog. She had a pink ribbon adorning her neck. Samantha kept breaking up into giggle fits as she rang up the charges.

Quinn groaned. She’d been on the phone with her sister.

Quinn gave her a grumpy thank you.

“You're welcome, model-boy.”

As he drove out of town, he stewed about the stupid pictures. He had dated Sierra Spenser for a few months three years ago. She was a former Victoria's Secret model who now owned her own modeling agency. Like many beautiful women, Sierra was a woman unaccustomed to the word "no"; men had been saying yes to her every whim all her life. Quinn found her high-maintenance persona exhausting; she was given to frequent temper tantrums when she didn’t get her way. In the end, after a whisper-fight as they dined at Canlis, one of Seattle’s most iconic restaurants, she threw a glass of very expensive cabernet sauvignon in his face and walked out of his life.

Sierra was all about drama.

She had shown up as he was doing the finish work Gus's millionaire friend's cabin, saying she’d forgiven him. She hadwanted him for a modeling job and loftily ignored his flat refusal.

The yellow dog panted happily alongside him as he drove. At least someone was enjoying the adventure.

After a stop at Salt and Straw to get a lot of apology ice cream, he arrived at Elisabeth Van Horn’s carriage house in Fremont.

The sound of several voices singing came out of a half-open window. He could hear Katrinka and Charlie’s piping voices start, then the others joined in singing about some girl’s revenge. The song was fitting for the women in this house. Stone killers, every one. God help the poor soul who tried to break in and rob them.

He sighed and rang the doorbell.

 

Chapter 4

Elisabeth

After the phone conversation with Lachlan, Elisabeth Van Horn rejoined the bracelet party. Wraith, Katherine, and her sister Emily were busy stringing beads to make friendship bracelets. The table, a hundred-year-old white oak dining table, had a selection of assorted beads and leather thongs for friendship bracelets spread out over it. The Taylor Swift concert had been an enormous hit with the girls. With all of them, really. Wraith, in particular, had been enchanted by the spectacle of the concert. The girls were singing and laughing. The finished bracelets sat in one of her crystal bowls, glowing with the power Katrinka had unconsciously imbued into them. Her magic as a maker was blossoming out in new directions every day.

“That was Lan. He’s on his way down here. Wanted to make sure we were going to be around.”

“That’s odd. He’s been avoiding us for months. Did he say why?”

“He didn’t say.”

Katherine frowned. “Typical Lan. Dealing with him lately is like talking to this table. Enough about him. We have bigger issues. Mandy called. Things are increasingly grim in Emory. Everybody is fighting with each other. The manna surge is in full flow. She wants us up there.”

“Think we should go?”

“Maybe. I’d like more information, though. I wish Niamh was here. Has she called?”

“No, and I’m getting worried.”

Their newly formed cyfamod contained an unlikely assemblage of females: Niamh Harpe, a panther-shifter; Katherine Keenan, a warrior witch; Wraith, a half-blood Asrai and cold-blooded assassin; and finally, Katrinka, a nine-year-old wolf shifter who possessed some unusual magical abilities.

The deirfiúracha m’fhuil binding that she had cast last year in Oldtown had melded them into something much closer than a normal coven. It had given them access to much power and had kept them safe, but it had come at a price.

That closeness had been the first challenge when they arrived back in Seattle. The lack of privacy, an unforeseen consequence of the binding, meant that their inner lives were now an open book to the others. No secrets anymore. While Katherine and Elisabeth were used to living in a coven, the same was not true for Niamh and Wraith. They were, by nature, solitary beings. Living like this rubbed them raw. Finally, Katherine and Elisabeth had saved them from open conflict by putting their heads together and coming up with a mind-filter spell that gave everybody some privacy. But not before the memories of each of their sexy times with Lachlan Quinn bubbled up.

While Elisabeth herself had harbored embarrassing sexual fantasies about Lachlan ever since he had wandered into her library, Katherine, Wraith, and Niamh had actually slept with him. When those memories surfaced, they produced an extremely volatile blend of arousal and jealousy. Niamh and Wraith had almost killed each other fighting until the magic of their binding knocked them unconscious. Luckily, Elisabeth had muttered a quick forget spell to spare Katrinka’s young mind from the details.

One thing they all absolutely agreed upon was that Lachlan Quinn must never know how they felt.

Katherine poured herself a cup of tea, sat down, picked up a hank of silk thread, and started stringing beads.

“Do they expect you to call a circle?”

“What’s a circle?” asked Charlie.

“It’s a meeting between covens,” Katherine said. “And yes, that was the unspoken message. I bet the crafters have pressured Lan to come down and ask us to move up there. Probably Mistress Marigold. Lan can’t refuse her anything.”

“The question is, what are we going to do?”

Wraith frowned. “I’m worried about Niamh as well. I knew I should have gone with her. Something is wrong. I can’t feel her.”

“Let’s table this until we talk to Lan.”

 

Chapter 5

Quinn

When Quinn knocked on the door of Elisabeth’s carriage house, two boys, each wearing headsets around their necks, answered his knock.

“Hey, Jeffery. How you doing, Elron?”

“Hi, Mr. Quinn. Come on in. They’re in the other room,” Jeffery said with a grimace. “Singing. Been doing it all day.”

“How come you aren’t in there with ‘em?” Quinn asked.

“We got a job. Video games.” He grinned. “Mr. Anderson sent down some for me and El to test. Said he’d pay us and everything!”

“Most excellent,” Quinn said and presented his fist for the boys to bump. Jeffery had come a long way from the skinny slave boy Niamh had rescued.

“Hey guys, since the girls got to go to the concert, how would you like to go camping sometime? Eastern Washington or maybe Montana, and do some fishing? Every boy ought to know how to fish.”

Jeffery’s eyes got big. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yup. Just the three of us and maybe Gus. We’ll have us an adventure.”

He looked at Elron, who was nodding enthusiastically.

“Y…Yes, sir. We’d love that.”

“Well, I’ll ask your moms and see if we can set it up.”

“Everybody’s in the library, Mr. Quinn.”

“Thanks, guys.”

The two boys went into the other room, whispering excitedly.

“Honey, I’m home,” Quinn yelled out. He set the bags full of pints of ice cream on a hallway table.

With ear-piercing squeals, two little girls came running out of Elisabeth’s kitchen and jumped into his arms.

“Oof, you guys are getting big.”

“Uncle Lan, are you sayin’ we’re fat?”

“Course not, munchkin. But now that you mention it…”

They both giggled. He set them down, picked up the bags of ice cream, and followed them into the library.

“We’re making friendship bracelets. You should see how many we got at the concert.”

“We Swifties like to exchange ‘em.”

“Yeah, we’re Swifties now.”

“I guess so. I heard you singing clear out on the street.”

“Uncle Lan, thank you so much for the tickets. We had a fun time. Everybody sang all the way home from the concert, even Wraith and Niamh.”

They finally stopped chattering, so Quinn could see who else was there. Elisabeth sat at the end of the table, which was covered with plastic boxes full of different colors and shapes of beads. Katie frowned at him. No surprise there. He loftily ignored Miss Grumpy Pants.

Elisabeth’s sisters, Emily and Cassandra, were measuring out lengths of brightly colored cord.

They all stared at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked suspiciously. “Why are you all staring at me?”

Wraith came out of the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine and snacks.

“Oh good, you finally shaved off that disgusting beard and got a haircut?”

“Very funny. I got ambushed when I had to take the dog here to get groomed.”

The girls, by this time, were down on their hands and knees, petting the yellow dog, whose tail was wagging rapidly.

“What’s her name, Uncle Lan?”

“Uh, no idea, Charlie. I just call her the yellow dog.”

Charlie slowly turned and blinked her giant blue eyes at him. “Uncle Lan, yellow dog is a terrible name,” she said.

Katherine and Emily started laughing.

“Her name is Molly,” Katrinka said firmly. “Anyone could tell just by looking at her. Molly McGillicuddy.”

The dog licked her face. Apparently, she liked her new name.

“Okay, then I guess that’s her name, all right. Thanks for telling me.”

“What is in the bags, Lan?” Wraith’s nose was twitching.

“Just some old ice cream I picked up from a dumpster behind Salt and Straw. I thought I’d leave a pint with you guys, in case you wanted some.”

He grinned at the outraged look on Wraith’s face. She and her sister Saria were serious ice cream-a-holics. Saria especially had been ever since Quinn had brought her across from Oldtown.

Elisabeth snatched the bags out of his hands. “Just ignore him. He thinks he’s funny; he should stick to pounding nails. Get spoons. Hurry, girls, get spoons for everybody, except for Uncle Lan. Smarty-pantses don’t get treats.” She yelled out, “Hey, Jeffery and Elron, come and get some ice cream!”

She started stacking pints on the table to squeals of delight as all the different flavors emerged.

Charlie came out of the kitchen with bowls and spoons as the boys came running.

“Hey, Em,” Quinn said quietly, “got a minute? I need some lawyerly advice.”

“Sure, Lan. Let’s go into the kitchen. We can talk there. The ice cream should keep this lot busy.”

Quinn filled her in on the pictures and what he remembered about Sierra’s visit to his work site.

“Okay, we can stop this. How should I search for them?”

He took a deep breath. “Hashtag sexy carpenter.”

Giggles erupted behind him.

Quinn turned around to find five faces looking in through the kitchen doorway, each holding a pint of ice cream and a spoon, all looking at a tablet that Elisabeth held.

Then the smiles morphed into frowns.

“Asshole,” Katherine growled. “Why don’t you keep your shirt on like decent people? What the fuck was she doing around you taking pictures?”

Quinn felt a headache coming on. This could easily escalate into a major shitstorm. “Number one, I didn’t know she was taking pictures of me. Her crew was supposed to take pictures of the cabin for some architecture magazine. Number two, I don’t need you nutcases getting involved.”

Wraith was unsmiling. “Do not worry your little brain, Mr. Sexy Carpenter. There is a simple solution. I will deal with her tomorrow.”

Emily gave her a startled look. “I think we can come up with a less final solution. I’ll take care of it. But if it’s gone viral, it’s out there forever.”

“We could egg her car,” Charlie said helpfully.

Katherine laughed and gave her a high five.

Elisabeth ignored the byplay. “Wowzers, Lan. Where did you get those glyphs? I’ve seen nothing like them. Could I look at them? Who inked them? Where did the design come from?”

He didn’t answer. The memory of the troll women holding him down while they burned the glyphs into his back was not something he was going to share.

Time to change the subject.

He turned to Elisabeth and Katherine. “Mistress Marigold came to visit this morning. She wants you guys to come to Emory. According to her, things are going to hell up there. The manna surge is taking its toll.”

“We’ve heard that as well,” Katherine frowned. “We were just talking about it. I’m afraid the Red Queens are going to get involved unless Althea can settle things down. At any rate, it’s coven business. You need to keep your big nose out of it.”

“I have no intention of getting involved,” Quinn said. “I have problems of my own. Where is Niamh? I have an issue with the wolf-kin over in Chelan.”

“She is over there right now doing a job for the Kin Council. What do you mean, problems?”

Quinn quickly sketched out what was going on in Opari. “I’m sure the Alpha has something to do with that. Where there is trouble, he is sure to be behind it. Anyway, I have to go to Oldtown and root out some answers.” He wistfully watched the little girls sharing their flavors of ice cream.

Katherine noticed the look and whispered, “They are doing well, Lan. You don’t need to worry. Little Kat is coming into her magic. With her blend of nature magic and her creativity, she has all the makings of a unique maker. Elisabeth has been working with her to help her understand and deal with her visions. Charlie is becoming pretty talented as well.”

“A maker?”

“We’re finding out that Kat can craft amulets of power using natural elements almost as well as Anna,” Katherine said proudly. “Thank you so much for understanding that she needs to be with us. Our little sister would be lost away from our cymafod. By the way, Taylor Swift was something else. We all got to feel like little girls again. Especially Wraith. Singing and dancing—it was so much fun.”

Quinn let the mind-boggling thought of Wraith singing and dancing go. “What are you talking about? She’d be lost? What did you guys do to her?” Quinn’s face reddened. The controls on his temper, always a bit on edge around witch-crafters, began to fray.

“Stop. Let me explain before you go off half-cocked.” She quickly sketched out how Katrinka had accidentally been bound with them when Elisabeth had cast deirfiúracha m’fhuil binding. “We did not know when you would find us. It was the only way we could ensure that the Daoine’s mind control spell no longer had the power to compel any of us.”

“Fuck,” Quinn muttered softly.

“It’s a good thing, Lan. Don’t worry. We will protect our little sister with our lives.”

“Okay,” he grumbled. “Look, I have to go down to Oldtown. Could I leave the yel…Molly dog with you guys? Also, please do me a favor when you guys go up to Emory: stay at Keeper House. Mrs. Periwinkle will welcome you guys with open arms and keep you safe from anything this world has to offer. The Red Queens bother me.”

He gave the girls a hug, shouted a goodbye to the boys, and walked out to retrieve his pack from the truck.

He never reached it.

 

Chapter 6

Deidra

Despite her training, D’eidra, heiress apparent of the Dökkálfar Rebus Forge, found herself gawking like an ignorant bellows-slave at Uonaidh, queen mother of all the Sidhe, as she lounged in her throne watching the dancers. Her polished ash-wood throne was cunningly set into a hollow of a massive white oak tree. The ancient tree, its roots many times thicker than the torso of a troll, curled deep into a granite outcropping. Its branches draped with moon flower vines that swept over the bower to form a sweet-scented vaulted canopy. Lavender pixie moss carpeted the bower floor. The moss gave off a soothing fragrance with each pace of the dancers.

A light breeze whispered through the branches, a background for the musicians hidden behind veils of silk.

D’eidra was abuzz with excitement. For the first time, her mother allowed her to attend court—and the Festival of Lughnasadh marked the beginning of her majority. Although she was trying very hard not to show it, the high-born dancers, Daoine and Dökkálfar Sidhe, awed her. Their radiant forms, clad in shimmering gowns and crowns that looked like woven starlight, whirled and twisted as they danced the stately intricate pavanes and galliards to the fairy music of the Court musicians.

At her side stood the Lady Iris, the Messenger of the Royal Court, and her mother, Ilyrana, Exarch of Forge Rebus.

Her mother’s deep violet eyes flicked over the dancers with practiced disdain, as if they were all dancing for her amusement. “Watch and learn, my daughter,” she whispered. “Formal events are ever times of extreme peril. That is why the young are not allowed at these things. A foolish misstep or casual jest, and a blood feud could erupt between a house or forge that can last for centuries.”

She turned and whistled a soft query in the fluting birdsong of High Alfar to Lady Iris. “Will he be amenable, do you think?”

The Lady Iris’s jade-colored cat eyes narrowed in thought. “I believe he will. You must know, though, this Keeper is unpredictable at best. We will have to wait and see.”

In spite of herself, D’eidra blurted, “He is a mere human, isn’t he? Humans do as they are told. Why is there a doubt? What we will—will be.”

Her mother’s fingers abruptly flashed in their Forge's secret language. “Daughter, be silent!”

D’eidra’s face flushed, then went pale as milk with embarrassment. To make such a mistake in this environment was unforgivable. But the thought still lingered. A human? Her mother was trying to frighten her.

She signed a meek query. “Mother, why have you summoned me here?”

“Daughter, you are on the cusp of adulthood. It is time for the last phase of your training. Be silent now and pay attention.”

Queen Uonaidh gestured for the three of them to enter a room behind the throne.

Three female trolls clad all in black rose to their feet as they entered. D’eidra desperately tried to maintain her public face as their eyes swept over her. The youngest of the three, who appeared to be her age, winked at her.

“The Vistomer,” her mother’s twitching fingers informed her.

D’eidra felt a stab of anxious awe. The Guardians of Alfheim. Mothers of all species frightened their children with tales of these three demi-gods.

The Queen sang, “Call him forth if you would, my sisters.”

Her mother signaled. “The tallest is Malak the Seer. She is without peer when it comes to arcane sorcery. Be still.”

The three females joined hands, muttered a wyrd that hurt D’eidra’s ears.

“It is done, Uonaidh. We hope you are comfortable with the consequences of enlisting him.”

Queen Uonaidh nodded.

As they waited in silence, two slaves set the table with a colorful array of edible flowers, fruits, and vegetables.

D’eidra’s mind was awash with questions she dared not ask. After the humiliating reprimand, she was determined to be quiet, but that did not stop her from wondering what was going on. When the summons had come from her mother, she had been in the healer’s cottages recovering from a broken wrist acquired after a foray into the borderlands along the edge of the Murk. Unlike the others of her age and class, her training had been brutal and relentless. As her mother’s heir, D’eidra had been lessened in power games like the others of her kind, but her mother had insisted that wasn’t enough. She thrust her into years of brutal combat training. D’eidra was now as adept as any of her bodyguards and, given the assassin skill sets she’d mastered, far more dangerous. Despite all that training, she was untested. She wondered if that would change now.

She flinched when a scar-faced human appeared in the middle of the room. D’eidra's first thought was outrage. He was ill-mannered and ill-clad for court. His clothes were no better than those of one of her mother’s forge slaves. How dare a slave be so casual in front of his betters? She felt her mother’s warning hand on her shoulder and quieted herself.

His green eyes flickered from green to solid black as he swept an assessing gaze around the room. His eyes paused at her mother.

Arrogant was her next thought. After a slight nod, he met the Queen’s gaze frankly instead of the customary downcast head and eyes. Slaves did not look directly at their betters, especially the Queen of all the Sidhe.

The guards, as one, stepped forward to punish the shameful disregard of custom.

Combat-schooled as she was, she noticed in shock the being’s subtle shift in posture.

This human prepares for combat! Does he think to fight? Does a mouse think to fight the lion?

Instinctively, her body moved in response.

Her mother’s hand instantly dug into her shoulder, warning her to be still.

Did this slave think himself capable of besting one of the people?

“He doesn’t look like much.” She flushed when she realized she had uttered her thought aloud.

Her mother’s fingers signed instantly:

Did you not hear what I said, you stupid girl? Have you forgotten your training? You know nothing. This human is unpredictable and extremely dangerous. You must learn to control your thoughts, not give voice to them as if you were a toddler. He may well be the most dangerous being you will ever encounter.

D’eidra scoffed—inwardly.

The Queen’s raised hand quelled the guards.

“Enough,” she said.

Lady Iris spoke, “Singer and Song bless you, Keeper. Please take your ease and let us discuss your petition.”

 

Chapter 7

Quinn

Quinn stumbled as the summons fetched him across the void and dumped him into the floral bower garden that he instantly recognized as one of the palace meeting rooms of the Court of Uonaidh, Queen of the Sidhe. The Queen herself was in attendance. He’d been in her presence twice before, and each time her blend of ageless beauty and cold ferocity had awed him. Unlike most Daione, her hair was not blond or silver, but black as night, woven into a complex braid with purple flowers and green ivy. Her hand held the ceremonial ash wand of her office. One glance into those icy green eyes left no doubt this was a warrior queen.

He looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring like a rube. Instead, he turned his attention to the rest of the environment. A random thought came to him, as it always did when he was in this realm. Alfheim was a Walt Disney world. Perfect. The colors were a little too vibrant. The smells a little bit too floral. The unsettling perfection of the place was a soul-crushing weight, unfelt until the thought of self-harm seemed appealing. It was not an easy place for humankind to flourish.

He scowled at the troll women who had summoned him. The youngest, Zeba, the Healer, gave him an unrepentant smirk. As always with her, seeing him discomfited proved to be a source of endless amusement.

The Other had come out of its place deep within his core and struggled to surge to the fore and prepare for battle. It did not like or trust the world of the Sidhe.

Be at ease, brother, Quinn soothed. Combat is not the answer here.

He gathered his wits and bowed respectfully to the Queen.

“May Singer and Song bless this gathering,” Quinn sang. He recognized the Dökkálfar Ilyrana and nodded to her. He didn’t recognize the other Dökkálfar female; a tall, blond, blue-eyed adolescent Sidhe who looked like she could play middle blocker for a UCLA volleyball team. He made a bet with himself that she was a close relative, probably a daughter.

The queen’s honor guard stood against the wall. Three of them eyed him with unconcealed hatred. The fourth, doing his job, his eyes never at rest sweept the room.

Odd. The Queen’s guard was usually the best of the best.

“Singer and Song Bless you, Keeper,” Lady Iris, the Queen’s messenger, sang. “Take your ease.”

She waved him to a table laden with brightly colored fruits and vegetables.

He nodded his thanks and gingerly sat on a slender chair that looked as if it were crafted from spider silk. He had no intention of eating anything. In the back of his brain, questions popped up. Uonaidh had granted him a private audience far too quickly. A suspiciously generous boon to a being hated by most of the Sidhe. Like a Russian doll, interactions with them always had layers. Their gifts always came with all sorts of strings.

The presence of Ilyrana, the Exarch of Rebus Forge, was another oddity.

Nothing happened by accident in this realm.

What the hell have they got me into?

His eye caught volleyball girl getting an ass-chewing from her mother. The informal tone of their house’s finger language told him she was a favorite daughter. Perhaps even the heir.

Quinn gave her a grin. It was true he didn’t look like much.

Why was she here? The Sidhe keep their precious young away from any sort of risk.

The three Troll Women arrayed themselves behind him.

Lady Iris sang out in the high Alfar of the Daoine court:

“You requested an audience, Lachlan Quinn. My Queen has granted it. What is it you desire?”

He stiffened inwardly.

Shit, it was going to be one of those meetings. I don’t have time for this.

Vuza, the ultimate tactician, dropped a warning hand on his shoulder.

Fuck it.

“Queen Uonaidh…”

As expected, that caused an immediate reaction.

Vusa’s hand spasmed on his shoulder.

The three female Sidhe seated at the table with him stared at him in open-mouthed shock.

The guards immediately surged forward, weapons free, to punish his cheek. He had just broken thousands of years of tradition and taboo by daring to address the Queen directly.

Quinn sat quietly and waited, hoping his calculations were correct.

The Sidhe Queen’s icy demeanor cracked a tiny smile. She raised a quelling hand. The guardsmen retreated to their posts.

“You play a dangerous game, Lachlan Quinn,” Iris sang.

“We have a dangerous situation, my lady,” Quinn sang back. “I apologize for breaking tradition. I mean no insult; I merely thought to gain attention. We have little time.”

He explained what he had seen in the Opari. He handed the packet of drugs he had taken to Lady Iris.

“We need to nip this in the bud. Opari is in the middle of her manna surge. Her emotions are… chaotic. Who knows how she will react to this kind of corruption in her world?”

Lady Iris didn’t bother to examine the packet. She handed it to Ilyrana.

Of course. I should have known.

Quinn swallowed rue. They already knew the situation in the Opari. That might explain Ilyrana’s presence here at this meeting. Unbeknownst to all, Ilyrana was the Patriarch of the Brotherhood, the ultra-secret clan of assassins. Of course, the Queen would wield such a valuable tool. Just as she would use him, he thought.

Fuck, I bet she already was. What else is going on here?

An aged white-haired Daoine burst into the room, accompanied by two of his house guards, judging by their livery.

“Why is the murderer of my son Aenrindel standing here unpunished?”

Fuck, of all times for this idiot to show up.

“Riluaneth of House Inalamin, your arrival is timely,” Lady Iris sang silky soft. “Perhaps you may help us plumb a mystery.” She motioned to Lady Ilyrana to hand over the packet of drugs Quinn had brought to him.

“Certainly, my Lady,” the old Daoine’s eyes had a reddish cast, and his features had an unusual tic instead of the usual stoic demeanor of the Sidhe. He was ill or high, a state seldom seen in the Sidhe. His eyes shifted nervously around the room. He opened the packet and touched it with a glass rod. The rod glowed purple.

“It is a potion of our manufacture. A new breakthrough, I might add, to treat certain emotional conditions. How did you come by it?”

“Opari’s Keeper brought it to us. He found it in the deep of the Opari.”

The tall, silver-haired being waved a bored hand. “Who cares if some fool smuggled some out to the slave peoples?”

“In the Opari, Lord Inalamin,” Quinn said quietly, “all know that half the drugs in Oldtown are out of your labs, but this was in the Goddess’ realm.”

“Silence, Mordor. How dare you speak in the presence of your betters?” The tall Daoine further erupted in genuine rage. “I swear to you, human, I will gather my house and descend on you and yours and destroy them root and branch. I will curse you and yours and salt the grounds of Keeper House…”

The Other surged to join him—

Quinn moved—

The dragon whip flared out with a shriek—

First to die were the three guards who were advancing on the Queen with weapons drawn—

Next were the two companions of the elderly Daoine—Quinn neatly intercepted the knives they had thrown at Lady Iris and flipped them back to lodge into their throats.