Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(5)

She was pretty, my grandmother, but not as beautiful as the fair folk; nor was she stupid. If she sounded coy, it was to make the fae believe her less than she was. Powerful things in his world didn’t bow and scrape or creep; they attacked from the front with plenty of warning.

“I am the lord of this forest,” he told her.

She believed the forest was hers; indeed, the locals called it the Witch’s Woods.

“I know, I know,” she said without hesitation, and her disdain was sly and hidden. “The birds whisper it to me, and the wind sings with your power. But two nights ago a pair of faery sight hounds came to me. They wore coats of white and rust, and in that way I knew them for fear hounds, the banehounds of old. So fearsome they were, as to stop the very heart in my chest. They came to my dreams and told me that they were gone away. That you could no more hold them obedient. They broke free of your leash. Such creatures do not make good slaves, so they told me.” Her voice was innocent and light—but I could feel the malice in her intent.

“Take care, witch,” he said.

“They left a promise and a warning for you,” she said, her voice softening. “They said that the power you threw away to pad your vanity will not return to you because the followers of the sacrificed god have reached our shores. Already, Underhill writhes under their cold iron and colder prayers. In a few centuries, they will bind the magic in this land, and all the fae will be powerless before them.”

I heard a noise, the sound of flat hand meeting cheek, and smirked inwardly because I cared not a smidgen for either of them. He had hit her, and he would pay dearly for it.

“You overstep yourself, witch,” he snarled. “You are here on my sufferance, your presence debases my forest with foulness, and you draw the mortals who seek you through my lands.”

There was a little silence.

I wondered if we would feast on a forest lord tonight. I licked my lips. Hunting had been lean within the area around the cottage where we could roam without leave from the witch, and she had not been inclined to allow us to forage farther afield.

“I meant no disrespect, sir,” she said in an obsequious voice that managed to convey fear and respect. Oh, yes, I thought, we would dine on this one. “I only relay information I have been given. I thought you came because you needed something from me. Did you come to drive me away?”

I could hear the rustle of fabric as he paced.

“I need to call my hounds again,” the fae lord said, his voice low and vicious. “I have a task to set them to. You will make it possible, or you will not need to worry about where you might live.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I understand, sir,” her voice was sweet and honey-soft. “Is your need life-and-death? Or simply desire?”

There was a long pause.

“I cannot help if you do not tell me,” she pled. “My magic responds to need. I must know what you want and how much you want it.” I wondered why the fae could not hear the lie as clearly as I could—but he did not know her, and she lied very well. The fae lied not at all, and so were not always good at seeing untruths when they were uttered.

“Yes,” his answer to her was reluctant. “Life-and-death. My word has been given to someone who will destroy me if I cannot keep it.”

“Then I can do something,” said my grandmother briskly, as if a servile tone had never touched her voice. “I can give you power to call hounds. But, as I am sure you know, my power works on sacrifice. For this, the cost will be dear.”

“Not just any hounds,” he said sharply, thinking he saw her trap. The fae didn’t lie, but deception was an art form to them. “The magical beasts.”

I didn’t need to see her smile to feel her satisfaction as he came to her trap without seeing it at all. He was prey, no matter how powerful he was. He was not clever enough to escape her—and she would forgive neither the slap nor the threat.

“Magical beasts in doglike form,” she clarified. He hadn’t listened to her. She’d told him that he wouldn’t be able to call the fae dogs again. But she was not fae. She could lie all the time—and she did so when it suited her. But I could tell that she had not lied about that. Magical beasts in doglike form—that would be us.

She meant to let him call wolves when he expected his own hounds. Maybe, maybe if he had controlled the fae banehounds, who were fearsome beasts, he could control us. For a while.

“Yes,” the forest lord said, not questioning her phrasing. After all, she was only responding to his request to clarify. He never thought to ask her what other magical doglike beasts there were nearby.

I didn’t know if he was truly stupid, or if he did not recognize the threat she represented. The fae were proud, worse back in those days, when they ruled, and the humans feared. They did not easily take notice of threats that were not fae in origin.

“I can do that,” she said slowly, as if after careful consideration. “You will pay me a pound of silver.”

“Fine,” he said easily, though it was more than she’d normally have seen in ten years of work.

“That is the cost you owe me,” she told him. “But the magic will cost your hand—all witchcraft magic has a price, and I cannot bear that for you. You can decide if it is the left or right.”

Silence enveloped the hut, and I left before that changed. If she realized I was there, she would make me do it—just because she knew it would hurt me. There was the faint possibility that she might do it herself; she enjoyed causing pain. But bones are hard to sever—and that one’s wrath would focus on the one who took his hand. Probably it would be Dafydd, who led our pack. Let Dafydd chew the fae’s hand off; he would enjoy it more than I.