Stranger (36 page)

Golden firelight carved out the glade. The trees surrounding them became both more solid and also more menacing, as light cast shadows over their knotted trunks. Yet there was a reason why Prometheus’s gift of fire cost him so dearly. The gods feared that fire might embolden man too much, give them too much strength and hope. In a way, the gods were right. She felt her own strength and spirit revive to see the flames, to watch Catullus’s gratification as he created fire. He pushed back the darkness and bestowed power to himself and her.

Satisfied that the fire blazed appropriately, Catullus rose and replaced the lid on the cauldron.

He might be in the depths of solving a riddle, but Gemma couldn’t stop the questions bustling in her mind. “Are we cooking something?”

“No, but we do want the water to boil.” He pulled his knife and turned to her. “I need your petticoat.”

It wasn’t exactly balmy here in the Night Forest, even with a fire going. Her petticoat had seen better days, yet it did provide some extra warmth. Still, Gemma complied, wriggling out of her underskirt. As she gathered up the yards of white muslin, she caught Catullus staring at her with a tight expression.

“Could you …” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. “I want you to do that move for me later.”

Pleasure heated her cheeks. “I’ll shimmy out of
all
my clothes, if you want.”

“Oh,” he growled, “I want.” He took the proffered petticoat, then groaned. “God, it’s still warm from your legs.” A new thought occurred to him. “Damn, I’m sorry you have to lose a layer of protection from the elements. I’d give you this coat, but it’s damp as a basement and less cheerful.”

“If I can survive a Chicago winter on a writer’s budget, a few hours in the Night Forest are nothing.”

He gave her an encouraging smile. Right before taking his knife to her petticoat and tearing it into large squares. “I would’ve used my handkerchief, but it’s too small. And wet, besides. Just like my shirt and trousers and … everything else I’ve got on.”

“Hell, how can I complain about a little breeze up my skirt when you might catch pneumonia?”

“Pneumonia is number thirty-two on my list of concerns at the moment.” He removed the lid from the pot. “First, let’s try something.”

He took one small square of cut muslin and tried to dip it into the water. The water’s surface grew tacky, impenetrable, every time he tried, leaving the fabric completely dry.

“So much for soaking the muslin in water,” he said. “I’ve another option.” He stretched a larger square of fabric over the top of the cauldron. The muslin was bigger than the top, so that when Catullus replaced the lid, the muslin formed a ruffle around the lid’s perimeter. “The seal is secure, so
this ought to work. We need to get the fire burning as hotly as possible. More wood.”

They both resumed the task of collecting tinder. “Can I ask you what you hope to accomplish?”

He gave an enigmatic smile. “It will be much more satisfying if you simply watch.”

“And not ask questions?” She snorted. “Can’t do it.”

“Oh, you can ask as many questions as you like. That does not mean I will answer them.”

More pieces of wood were fed into the fire until it blazed high, licking the sides of the pot. Catullus lifted the lid to peer underneath the square of fabric. “Good. The water’s boiling. We have to keep it at a steady, strong boil.” He replaced the fabric and lid.

“And now?”

“Now we wait. This could take some time, given the size of the cauldron.” He glanced around the clearing, frowning. “Blast. I don’t have anything clean or dry for you to sit on.”

She found his solicitousness touching, but unnecessary. “I’m not a hothouse flower, Catullus. More of a scrappy weed.”

“Don’t demean yourself.” He scowled.

“I’m not. Weeds are hardy, tough to kill. They can grow anywhere. Maybe they aren’t the most beautiful plant—”

“You are to me,” he said immediately.

How he’d changed from the tongue-tied scholar! “All right, some weeds are almost pretty,” she allowed. “The most important thing about them, though, is that it takes a lot to keep them from enduring. They don’t mind a little dirt. After everything we’ve both been through, sitting on the ground is unimportant.” To demonstrate, she sat indecorously cross-legged. When he just looked down at her, hands on his hips and shaking his head, she patted the ground beside her. “Come on. Grab some dirt. It’s comfortable,” she added in a singsong tone. “Soft, cushiony dust. Mm.”

He heaved an exasperated sigh before settling down
beside her. He folded his long legs as he sat, resting his shotgun across his lap. One hand hovered close to the knife at his belt. The fire gleamed on the glass of his spectacles, turning them into circles of light as he remained vigilant, continually looking around and assessing possible danger.

For a while, they watched the fire beneath the kettle in companionable, comfortable silence. Or as companionable and comfortable as one could be in the middle of the Night Forest, in eternal darkness, surrounded by dangerous, magical creatures on every side. Safe. She felt safe with Catullus, knowing that no matter what situation they found themselves in, he was the most capable, confident man she knew. Survival wasn’t a guarantee, but she sure as hell felt better knowing that Catullus had not just her back, but her front and every other side.

She fought a yawn. God, she was tired. Her sleep in the cottage felt like days ago—and it might have been. If there ever was a place to take a nap, the Night Forest was not it. And she would not force Catullus to keep watch as she blithely slept.

Talking. They needed to talk to keep her awake.

“Watching this pot over a fire makes me think of food,” she murmured.

He groaned. “Bloody hell, I’m hungry. Can’t wait to get back to our own world and have Bakewell pudding.”

“What’s that?”

“A kind of tart—a butter crust with fruit preserves along the bottom and an almond custard on top.” He smacked his lips. “Our cook at headquarters makes the best Bakewell pudding for tea. I’ve been known to bolt from my workshop in the middle of a project when Cook says she’s made some.”

“I detect a sweet tooth.” It charmed her to think of Catullus like an eager boy racing down a hallway for a treat.

“On occasion. Too many Bakewell puddings makes for a Blade with a belly.”

She gave him a poke in his very flat, very hard stomach.
“Yes, you’re really going to seed. Didn’t want to be obnoxious and point it out, though.”

“Yankee jade,” he said affably. “I’m not a young man anymore. I can’t eat like one.”

“Don’t tell that to my mother,” Gemma said. “Anyone who refuses seconds she treats like a challenge. She’ll bombard you with food until not a single waistcoat will fit.”

“Is she a good cook, your mother?”

Now it was her turn to smack her lips. “No one can top Lucia Murphy for cooking. Corned beef and cabbage for my father. Featherlight
gnocchi. Panettone
at Christmas. That’s a sweet bread with raisins and candied orange.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“I could eat a whole loaf of
panettone
all by myself, but she always gives it away as gifts. If you come home with me, maybe she’ll give you your very own loaf. But you have to promise to share.”

He smiled warmly. “I’m looking forward to it. But, Gemma,” he asked gently, “would she welcome me into her home?”

The question surprised her. “Why would you ask that?”

“I’ve been to your country. It isn’t precisely the most progressive where colored people are concerned.”

She bit back a retort. It wasn’t
her
Catullus questioned, or even her family. And he had a point. In Chicago, parts of the city were white, parts were Irish, or Italian, or Polish. And black. Some of the neighborhoods mixed. Others … didn’t.

What if she did walk into her family’s parlor on Catullus’s arm? Even if her family accepted him, the neighborhood wouldn’t. Mixed marriages had been legalized in Illinois only the year before, but that did not mean they were applauded and endorsed. Some states wouldn’t recognize marriages between different races, or outlawed them. In the newsroom, she’d heard stories of black families being forced out of white neighborhoods, violence, and the few
mixed-race couples had a difficult time finding anyplace where they could make a home. The
Trib
boys laughed and said crude things about these families and couples, while Gemma sat silently, her face burning in shame. Shame because she did not speak out. Shame because she was surrounded by intolerance.

Her mood, which had been buoyed by Catullus’s presence and the cheer of the fire, sank. Too much had been happening for her to stop and think about what lay ahead for her and him. It didn’t matter what she felt in her heart. To her homeland, she and Catullus should not be together.

“Is that cauldron done boiling?” she asked, rather than voice any of her worries.

He rose to check the pot. As he moved, his spectacles lost their reflective gleam, so she could see his eyes again. A sadness there. They both knew that, if they did manage to survive this mission for the Blades and avert the Heirs’ intended disaster, Gemma and Catullus had another battle to fight. A battle with no clear villains, no single evil to defeat. Never-ending and amorphous. The hardest kind of battle to win.

His unexpected cry of triumph had her on her feet and at his side. “What is it?”

He held up the square of muslin. As he did so, steam rose up from the boiling water, misting his spectacles. “It’s done.”

Gemma peered at the fabric. Steam had soaked it until it became almost transparent. Lightly, she touched the muslin.

“Wet.”

“With water from the cauldron.” He moved the damp fabric away from the cauldron, farther than the flask that had held water, and the muslin remained heavy with liquid.

She looked back and forth between the fabric and Catullus, truly awestruck at his inventive mind. “You are a marvel, Mr. Graves.”

“Basic science, Miss Murphy.” Yet he beamed at her
praise. Then sobered. “We cannot congratulate ourselves just yet. We have to take it back to Merlin before the water evaporates.”

Gemma groaned, thinking of the long voyage back across the Lake of Shadows and along the Deathless River. No doubt more awful creatures would try to stop or hurt them, making progress painfully slow.

A feminine soft chuckle caused her and Catullus to spin around. At the edge of the firelight stood a woman, her skin the color of a starless night, hair like silver cobwebs waving in an unseen current. She wore a circlet, studded with black stones, and her eyes glowed whitely. A shadow-hued gown draped over her ageless body. As she floated toward Gemma and Catullus, her approving gaze lingered on him.

“Oh, God,” Gemma muttered under her breath. “Not another magical tramp.”

“No ‘tramp,’ mortal.” The woman neared, becoming, upon closer inspection, even more uncanny, her proportions more elongated than a human’s, as though she were an odd reflection of beauty. “A queen.”

“Queen Mab,” said Catullus.

Gemma gulped. It wasn’t a smart idea to call faerie queens names as she inadvertently had. “Sorry, Your Highness. We had a little trouble on our way here.”

“With a Baobhan Sidhe,” Mab said, her voice cool as mist. “’Tis no wonder they tried to drink from your companion, mortal. With a light as strong as his, who could stay away?” She turned her gleaming eyes to Catullus and trailed her fingers across his jaw. “You even tempt one as ancient as I.”

Catullus blushed. “Ah … thank you, Your Majesty.”

Hell,
Gemma thought. Was she going to have to fight this immortal queen for him? Well, Gemma knew a few dirty tricks, and she’d use them if it came to that.

“None have yet solved this riddle,” Mab continued, turning
to the cauldron. “Until now. And I do so appreciate a clever, devious mind. For your cunning, I grant you two boons.”

A small metal box appeared at the faerie queen’s hem. “Place the fabric within this coffer, and it shall keep the water from returning to the air. You have but a few hours,” she cautioned, “and then the coffer shall disappear, and with it whatever was inside. Take it.”

Gemma quickly picked up the box, surprised at its heaviness. Catullus opened the box and carefully set the damp fabric inside before securing the lid.

“You are very generous, Your Highness,” he said, bowing.

“My generosity continues, clever mortal. Within the coffer is a piece of iron.”

Catullus’s brow knit as he tried to understand the significance of this.

“In the old stories,” Gemma explained, remembering, “iron is used to ward off faeries and faerie magic.”

“So long as the coffer is in your possession,” Mab continued regally, “you shall pass through the Night Forest unharmed.”

Though Gemma knew next to nothing about being in the presence of royalty, she attempted a curtsy. “Thanks again, Your Highness.”

The faerie queen inclined her head. “’Tis a trifle. You have amused me, mortals, and in my long, long life, I find it increasingly difficult to be amused. Now go,” she said, voice cooling, “for my temper is a mercurial thing, and I may decide to punish rather than reward you.”

Gemma and Catullus immediately began backing away from Mab. As they reached the edge of the clearing, the queen added, “And give my compliments to that madman in the oak. By sending you to me, he has supplied a moment’s respite from the weariness of my existence.”

“We are grateful—” Catullus began.

“Leave now!” Mab snapped. The air chilled, and barren trees rattled like bones at her words.

Not needing further encouragement, the two mortals hurried away, with Mab’s brittle, uncanny laughter ringing through the trees.

The journey back through the Night Forest passed much more quickly than before. None of the inhabitants of the Lake of Shadows or the forest troubled Gemma and Catullus, though creatures did watch from the depths of the darkness with malevolent, baleful stares. Gemma had no doubt that if they didn’t have the iron’s protection, the return voyage would have been a messy, ugly business.