Ghost Light

Torn gestured for me to step forward.  I held my breath and moved closer to the cat sidhe.  Torn reached into a dark crevice between two bricks and pulled a shadow around us like an inky, black cloak.  I could see nothing inside the shadow, but I could feel Torn’s presence.  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.

“Everything is hush-hush now, princess,” he said.  “You know my cat sidhe can be trusted, so why the clandestine cloak-and-dagger business?  I’m guessing this shall be interesting.”

In fact, I didn’t trust any of the cat sidhe, but that was beside the point.  This conversation was between me and Torn.  What I had to say could not breach these walls, or shadows, or whatever.

“Our ears only?” I asked.

I winced and hoped the cat sidhe couldn’t see me in the dark.  Torn only had one tattered ear, the other was no more than a cratered lump of scar tissue.  I’d have to refrain from mentioning ears if I wanted to stay on the cat lord’s good side.

“Yes, princess,” he said.  “It’s just you and me.”

I felt the cat sidhe’s breath on my neck and gripped my knives.

“Touch me Torn and, allies or not, I’ll carve your good ear to match,” I said.

Oops.  So much for not drawing attention to his disfigurements.  I had a real knack for pissing people off.  Jinx said it was my secret superpower, like I needed anymore of those.

“Symmetry may not be such a punishment,” he said.  “Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

I snorted.  Faeries and their damned love of poetry, it was like a disease.  I was pretty sure that William Blake’s tiger hadn’t been a cat sidhe, but you never know.  Torn’s been around long enough.  At least he wasn’t quoting Shakespeare.  Most fae are obsessed with The Bard.

“I don’t have time for games, Torn,” I said.  “I need information.”

“Yummy, I like it when you play rough, Princess,” he said, purring.

“Did I mention that my blades are tipped with iron?” I said.

“Fine,” he said.  With a rattle of bones and a heavy sigh, Torn took a step away.  “What knowledge do you seek?”

I focused on the direction of his voice and took a breath.

“I need to find a door to Faerie,” I said.

“Oh, shit, is that all?” he asked, voice dripping sarcasm.  “Why don’t you ask for Fionn mac Cumhaill’s bag of lost treasure while you’re at it?”

“So you can’t find out?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that, princess,” he said.  Torn struck a match and lit a torch he’d pulled from thin air.  We were still inside the privacy shadow he’d wrapped around us. The torch flickered making light dance across the cat sidhe’s scarred face.  “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To Mag Mell, of course,” he said.

Torn grinned and sprinted away.  I chased after the flickering torch, swearing under my breath.  Mab’s bloody freaking bones.  I was trapped in a shadow, playing cat and mouse games with a cat sidhe.

Too bad I was the mouse.

Chapter 34

Sir Torn ripped a hole in the fabric of reality and leapt into the light beyond.  I shielded my eyes against the sun and stumbled out onto a grassy plain.  My ears popped as the shadow we’d traveled through snapped shut behind me.

I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the clear, bright day.  The sun blazed from a deep cerulean sky, not a cloud marring its perfection.  A breeze rustled the leaves of an orchard to my left and golden light sparkled on the surface of a placid lake to my right.  I sucked in a breath at the fantastical landscape.

A white stag, with antlers streaming moss and flowering vines, drank from the lake.  A cardinal perched on the stag’s back, the bird a brilliant red to match the fields of flowering poppies that went on for miles in every direction.

I’ve a feeling we’re not in Harborsmouth anymore.  Maybe if I clicked my heels, I’d find a way home.  On second thought, I didn’t think messing with magic was a good idea in this place.  With my luck, a tornado would deposit a house on my head.

Torn leaned against a tree and rubbed a shiny, red apple against the shirt beneath his leather vest.

“Want an apple, Princess?” he asked.  “The food here is free for the taking.  No one wants for food or drink in Mag Mell.”

Mag Mell.  The name sent shivers up my spine.  I was on one of the mythical planes of the Celtic Otherworld.  Elysium, Valhalla, these planes all existed somewhere, but the Celtic Otherworlds of Emain Ablach, Hy Brasil, Roca Barraidh, Tír na nÓg, Ynys Afallon, and Mag Mell were the ones most entwined with Faerie.

Was the door to Faerie here on the verdant plains of Mag Mell?

“W-w-what are we doing here?” I asked.

“Ah, I didn’t think you were one for philosophy, princess,” Torn said.  “I prefer Aristotelianism, but, then again, I used to dine with the man.  His wife Pythias could prepare a mean feast.”

I sighed, jaw aching from grinding my teeth.