The Outcast Prince (22 page)

Again he pulled himself up for thinking like a fairy. Lydia knew what he was, she wasn’t trying to out-scheme him. She was human. She was what he wanted and could only have once he’d taken the Window from her. Would she sacrifice the mirror for him? Or maybe the real question was would she want to keep it once she knew what it was and the power it had? Probably not.

But he knew he’d do what he had to, to keep Shea from getting it. The only way to do that was to give it to his father.
Maybe.
He thought over the wording of the deals he’d made and what his father had asked. From where he was sitting the most important thing was getting his soul and stopping Shea; how that all played out wasn’t specified.

He could make all the plans he wanted, but he actually needed the Window first. Which meant he had to be sure Lydia had it. He needed to see it. Until then he needed to make sure she was safe from the fairies she couldn’t see.

“Bramwel, where’s Dylis?” Caspian called out.

“Around,” the fairy said as he stuck his head out the back. “Why?”

“I need her to go to Callaway House.” Someone needed to keep an eye on the house and Lydia. Since Dylis had been watching Lydia while he was at Court maybe she could watch over her and the house for a little longer.

Bramwel looked at him like he was pond scum. “She doesn’t work for you; she works for your father.”

And Bramwel was only here until his part of the deal was done. As soon as Felan was crowned the fairies would be out of his life for good. Just like he wanted. Yet now he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know what it was like to live without having a fairy watch over him.

“Can you go?” Caspian smiled and hoped that Bramwel wouldn’t follow the terms of his deal to the word.

Bramwel raised one eyebrow. “I’m here to look after your place of employment, that is all.”

Damn
it.
“You brought me clothes.” For which he was very grateful; he’d never fully appreciated the luxury of having clean clothing every day before.

“No, Dylis did it out of an affection I don’t understand. You’re an adult, not a child.”

But Dylis had known him since he was a baby. Not having her around would be odd—as well as peaceful. His house would be almost his own. “Can I talk to her?”

He’d expected her to be here, or somewhere close by, if not for him then to at least see Bramwel.

“She’s at Court at the Prince’s command.” The longing in Bramwel’s voice left no doubt that’s where he’d rather be, or maybe he didn’t care as long as he was with Dylis after so long apart. He bit down on the curiosity about where Bramwel had been for three hundred years. It probably wasn’t pleasant.

Caspian tried a different tack. “I thought you two would be together.”

The fairy shook his head and looked at the floor, obviously wishing that they were together. “There is still work to be done.”

So Dylis was still helping Felan, no doubt securing ties and cementing a place on his Council for both her and Bramwel. She was no fool. He was on his own. The imp had skived off to do whatever imps do—probably make trouble, but hopefully to follow Shea around. Caspian made himself relax. If Shea was going to move against Lydia, the imp would tell him. Caspian had seen the glint in the imp’s pale eyes at the thought of returning to Court. And besides, Shea didn’t know where the Window or Counter-Window was.

Lydia could handle human problems. All he had to do was handle the fairy ones and everything would work out. He had to believe that.

“Fine.” Caspian flicked his hand and dismissed the fairy as if he’d been doing it all his life. He looked at his hand as if it had just offended him. He didn’t care if changelings were looked down on; he’d rather be one of them than fairy. He needed his soul back fast.

Tonight.

Lydia double-checked the trunk of diaries, then put the key to the lock and a copy of the list in an envelope. She’d come around early to meet the representative from the historical society, who was thrilled to be getting his hands on the Callaway diaries—some of them, anyway. The more recent ones Lydia had already separated and put away. Caspian had been right about their interest in the diaries, but also their concern about the contents. One woman’s life through a couple of wars and various changes in government and policies was a rare collection. Lydia was glad they’d be valued and hoped something useful would come of them instead of the endless speculation and threats. No wonder Gran had never mentioned them.

A sharp rap on the front door made her jump. While she might be doing the right thing, her stomach was still in knots. What if Mr. Johnson looked at the diaries and decided not to take them? Then she’d have to find a way to take the scandal out of them and make the contents public herself, take the risk herself. Was it right that she was letting someone else shoulder the burden? She let out a slow breath and opened the front door. A thin man of less than average height waited on the step. Not what she’d pictured when talking to him on the phone. He’d sounded older.

“Mr. Johnson?”

“Yes.” His pale blue eyes glimmered and she felt herself nodding.

“Come in and I’ll show you where the diaries are.” She stepped aside and let him into the house. As she did a shiver of warning rolled down her spine. Her gaze tracked him as he walked past the painting in the entrance. His reflection caught in the glass… and it looked nothing like the man she was seeing.

Her throat closed. In the reflection was a gaunt pale face, like life had hollowed him out, and his eyes were as cold and pale as ice. The same menace she’d felt when the fairy had arrived for Caspian now lodged in her gut, only bigger and sharper. This man who was pretending to be Mr. Johnson wasn’t here to talk. He was a Grey.

The Grey didn’t seem to have noticed that his reflection didn’t match or maybe he didn’t care. She took a step back. But the door slammed and locked behind her.

“No!” She pulled on the handle and tried to turn it. Lydia spun back to face the Grey.

Her heart thudded, but all he did was look at her and shake his head. “I thought we’d wait for Caspian together. I can’t have you running around outside. You might get hurt.”
Hurt
was emphasized as if she was safer in here with him.

Her handbag was in the kitchen, along with the landline. But she had iron tucked in her bra, and the hat stand was iron. All she had to do was keep him talking and then what? Whack him with the hat stand? Press it against his skin until he burned? Her stomach tightened. Could she do it?

“What does Caspian have to do with this?” Maybe she should just pretend she didn’t know this man was a fairy. Isn’t that what Dylis had told her to do first? No, that was ignore and it was too late for that.

She glanced at the man’s reflection again and bit her lip at the unsightly visage. How had he tricked her into thinking he was Mr. Johnson when he looked like a walking corpse? The grim reaper come for tea?

“Everything. I asked him to do something for me and he failed.”

Her heart hiccupped. “Well he’s not here. He’s at his shop.”

He sneered. “He’ll be here soon enough. He’ll come to protect you and then he’ll give me what I want.”

She didn’t want to be used in a fairy game, and certainly not as a pawn to force Caspian to do what this Grey wanted.

“I don’t think so.” She grabbed the hat stand and swung it at the Grey. It connected with a sickening crunch against his face, but she didn’t stop to assess the damage as she ran past the howling fairy. Straight for the kitchen for her phone and more iron.

He yelled and cursed and his footsteps pounded after her.

Lydia slid around the dining table. She flicked on the tap.
Running
water. Fairies hate running water.
Then she grabbed her cell phone from her handbag and turned to face the Grey. Half his face was blistered and bleeding and he’d dropped the illusion of being human. This was the scary Caspian faced every day. This is what he saw and pretended not to. Being fairy, even part fairy, was so much more than she’d ever thought.

“What do you want?”

He laughed. “So you know what I am.” He stalked toward her, his clothing dull and frayed, his fingers bony claws.

She flicked a handful of water at him and he came no closer.

The Grey narrowed his eyes. His gaze darted from the iron to the tap and back to her as if weighing his options.

“What do you want?” she repeated. Then she remembered she shouldn’t be talking to him at all. What if he tricked her out of her soul, or she tripped up and made an accidental deal? Oh God, she was in over her head. Where was Caspian? Where was Dylis? Where was anyone who could help her?

“I want the Window. I want to go home.” He watched her but didn’t move closer.

“The Window? Which window? You can have whatever window you want.” She played dumb, and hoped he’d fall for it.

“Not
a
window, stupid.
The
Window. A doorway back to Annwyn.”

“Oh.” This was the Grey that had filled her yard with mirrors, the one who had forced Caspian to make a deal that had gotten him hauled off to Annwyn. Shea ap Greely. This wasn’t any old Grey.

Was he desperate enough to kill? She suddenly felt very mortal and very insignificant.

The doorbell rang. Mr. Johnson from the historical society. She gasped with relief and opened her mouth to call out, but the words caught in her throat. She tried again, but her throat closed as if she were silently choking.

Shea wagged his finger at her. “You might have iron, but I still have magic.” If it was possible he began to look worse, deep pits hollowed his cheeks and the burn began to weep. “The man at the door won’t bother us again.” Wasted and angular Shea got uglier by the minute.

Lydia swallowed. “What did you do to him?” Her voice was croaky as if it hadn’t been used in too long. What had he done to her?

“Encouraged him to think no one was home.”

“Uh-huh.” This was a bit of a stand-off. Behind her the tap ran on.

Shea pulled out a chair and sat. “Shall we wait?”

No, she’d much rather leave, but that didn’t seem like an option and she was trying to limit what she said. She leaned against the kitchen counter. “For what?”

“Caspian.”

Lydia waved her cell phone. “I could just call him.”

Shea tilted his head. “That will bring him?”

Or send him running. She dialed his number and prayed he’d answer. She didn’t know how long Shea would be willing to wait.

***

Glass shattered. Caspian looked up. Another window broke. There was the unmistakable sound of singing silver as Bramwel drew his sword. Caspian bolted for the shop front. And stopped. He’d been expecting human kids making trouble, not a bunch of five-foot-high ugly banished fairies… trolls to a human mind.

They stood outside the shop, rocks in hand. There wasn’t much more glass to break, but the rocks could still damage the furniture. He looked at Bramwel, his sword hummed ready for use as he stalked toward the doorway and the trolls. He may not want to help Caspian personally, but at least he took his promise of looking after the shop seriously.

The trolls swaggered closer like any overconfident bunch of teens looking for trouble. Except it was broad daylight and no one had been drinking. At least he hoped they hadn’t been drinking. There was nothing more bad tempered than a short, ugly fairy fuelled by a bottle of wine.

“Are you glamouring?”

Bramwel gave him a withering glance. “Of course.”

At least if people saw anything it would be a bunch of troublemakers, not something best left under a bridge to make trouble for travelers.

“I’m going to call the cops.”

“What are they going to do? Arrest them?” Bramwel snorted.

“Unless you have a spare sword, it’s the best I’ve got.” The cops arriving would at least scare them off. Caspian was willing to bet Shea was behind this attack, and the imp hadn’t said boo—that’s what he got for relying on banished fairies.

“Can you even use a sword, banished changeling?”

“I did fencing.” Much to his human father’s horror and Dylis’s delight. He’d also been on the track and field team to balance the scales.

“Not the same. Go and ring your cops.”

Yeah, and at least if there was damage it would be covered by insurance. He turned around and heard the stampede of troll feet. When he glanced back Bramwel had already killed one. The rest were staying out of reach. They were just here to destroy.

He snatched up the phone and rang emergency. As he did, the imp jumped onto his chair. He panted, one hand over his tiny heart. While Caspian spoke to the operator, and listened to the crashing out front, he kept one eye on the imp who was doing a strange pantomime that involved choking and a zombie walk. He’d never been good at charades.

As he gave the details to emergency, no one was hurt, just a burglary in progress, his phone beeped from a missed call and message.

Finally the imp gave up on the dance routine and punched some words out on the laptop in the middle of his document.

Shea
is
with
a
woman.

Caspian blinked and hoped he’d read that wrong. He hadn’t. Lydia. Shea was with Lydia.

There was a very human cry of pain. The operator was warning him not to be a hero and that the police would arrive shortly. He hung up. Bramwel’s arm was bent in the wrong place. But he was still fighting. Furniture was overturned. He wanted to join the fray just to hurt something, but that wouldn’t help Lydia. This was a distraction, or a warning, or maybe a parting shot. It didn’t matter. He had to get to Lydia.

“I have to leave.”

Bramwel threw piece of broken chair at a troll who danced and laughed, which sounded more like the crunching of gravel than anything joyous. “Go, you’re no use to me here.” He jumped back to avoid the swinging of the other piece of chair as it swept toward his shins. “Finish him, finish this. Don’t let the bloodshed be for nothing.” The words were gritted out.

The imp scuttled past, tripping a troll as he went. At least Bramwel had help until the cops arrived. That didn’t stop Caspian from feeling like a coward for walking away from the fight. He checked the missed call; it was from Lydia. But he didn’t need to hear the message to know what was happening. Shea was at Callaway House, waiting for him.

Caspian picked up his car keys, hoping he didn’t have to choose between Lydia and handing over the Window. He couldn’t. If he lost the Window he was as good as dead. And if he lost Lydia, he might as well be dead.