For Your Heart (Hill Dweller Retellings) (35 page)

    
Mara grins.  “Oh.  I hadn’t thought of that.  Con?”  She meets his equally amused gaze.  “Should we worry about that?”

    
He shrugs his massive shoulders.  “I’m feeling pretty good today, actually.”

    
Mara turns back around.  “No worries.  He’s got it all under control.  Jeanette should be just fine without you, dear.”

    
Emily’s nostrils flare in distaste and she looks to me to argue the point, but I just shrug at her.  If saving Tam comes down to leaving Emily here with a saucy old lady and going off with a guy whose glare could peel paint off walls, then I’m gonna do it.

“So,” I say, trying to make sitting in a car with this creepy Con guy a little less awkward.  “How do you know Tamrin?”

    
“I don’t talk to humans about
Aos Si
affairs,” he answers.

    
I swallow.  Wow, this guy brings the strong silent type a whole new meaning.  I adjust myself so I can look at him more clearly.  “Look, Con - can I call you that?”

    
He jerks his head down in what I assume is ascent.

    
“I’m kind of terrified of this whole thing.  I’m scared of learning about things I never thought were real, about finding Timmy again, about trying to save him, of being seventeen and friggin’ pregnant, of not knowing if my baby’s father is even going to be alive in a couple of days – I’m even scared of you – so can you like, throw me a bone or something?  Help me understand just a little bit?”

    
Connor pulls his lips in then begins chewing the bottom one.  It makes him seem a little less dangerous, a little more human.  “Our courts are affiliated,” he says.  He has a very low, rumbly sort of voice.  Like a bear or a wolf might have if one were to talk.  “We’ve known each other for a while.  Sometimes we go hunting or fishing.”  He shoots me a sidelong glance.  “I assume he’s told you about the courts.”

    
I nod.  “Sort of.  He’s from Summer Court, I know that.  From what I know of faerie mythology there’s four courts, right?  One for each season?”

    
He lifts a hand and shoves his hair back.  “Yeah.”

    
“So…” I say, trying to remember what I know of the courts, “by affiliated, you mean...?”

    
“We serve the same tithe,” he clarifies. 

    
…As if that’s supposed to clarify everything. 

    
When he notices my confusion he says, “Seelie.”

    
“Oh, right.”  Duh.  Summer and Spring are the Seelie courts while Autumn and Winter are the UnSeelie Courts.  “So, you’re from Spring Court.”

    
It takes him a moment to answer.  “Yes.  I’m from the Spring Court.”

    
“You’re like the good guys, right?  The Seelies are supposed to be the Court of Light?”

    
“Good is a relative term,” he says slowly.  “We’re technically not dangerous to humans…Unless they piss us off or get in the way.  But we’re not bound to causing chaos and harm toward them if that’s what you mean.”

    
“Huh,” I muse.  “So, you two are like, friends?”

    
Connor takes another long moment to reply, his dark eyes intent and his brow pulled down.  “No.  I don’t have friends.  Friends are dangerous in the Seelie courts.  Tamrin and I, we…tolerate each other’s company.”

    
I give him a smirk and let out a little bit of a laugh.  “Okay.  Okay.”

    
He glances at me, slightly bewildered.  “What?”

    
I shake my head.  “Nothing.  You guys are funny, that’s all.”

    
Connor’s brows draw tighter, making him look even more formidable.  “Funny how?”  He sounds disgruntled, like he thinks I’m having fun at his expense.

    
“He said almost the same thing about you when he told me to come find you.  ‘He’ll help, he’s an…acquaintance.’”  Still shaking my head, I turn to the window and watch the trees pass by.  We’re going deeper and deeper into some kind of state forest.  “How much longer?”

    
“Not long.  The road will end soon.  We’ll walk from there.”

Jeanette

    
It’s night by the time Connor leads me, huffing and sweating, into a small clearing sheltered between two hills butted against a craggy rock face. 

    
I stop beside him, panting.  “Please tell me I don’t have to climb that.”

    
Connor pulls his shaggy hair back and ties it into a tiny broomstick of a ponytail.  “Even if I don’t say it, it won’t make it not true.”

    
I slump my shoulders and groan.

    
He shushes me and straightens, his eyes scanning the woods around us.  “She knows we’re here.”

    
Swallowing, I step closer to him and try to follow his eyes.  “How?”

    
He shakes his head.  “She’s got eyes and ears everywhere.”  He puts a hand against my back and urges me toward the rock face.  “Come on.”

    
Connor stays behind me, catching me when I place my foot in the wrong place and start to slide.  By the time we reach a spot where it levels off, I’m sweating under my hoodie, I’ve ripped holes in both knees of my jeans, and my hands are raw and scratched.  But I’m here.

    
As Connor pulls himself up behind me, I spin in a tight circle.  We’re in a small depression in the rock that inclines gently into a narrow opening.  A cave.  And from within blooms a warm yellow glow.  At my feet the dirt is still soft from the last rain, and the rock rising around us is covered in thick moss.  All over, clusters of strange colored mushrooms poke up from deeper depressions in the grey stone.  Hundreds of different kinds with odd markings, long and short stalks, frilly and domed and pointy caps.

    
Geez, no wonder they call her Mushroom Woman.

    
“This is where she lives,” Connor whispers from behind me.  “Don’t touch anything.”

    
Nodding, I follow him as he leads me toward the mouth of the cave and squeezes in before me.  It’s a tight fit for me, so it must feel downright impossible for him.  The passage narrows and turns before opening into a wide gapping cavern. 

    
Around us there’s a dragon’s hoard of junk.  Broken wooden crates, moldy cardboard boxes, jars of everything, scraps of moth-eaten and dingy fabric, stiff shoes, ancient coins blackened with age, tarnished jewelry, assorted bits of rusty armor and weaponry, priceless pieces of mouse-nibbled and water stained art, scuffed and warped furniture.  Mounds and mounds, shelves reaching into the darkness, tumbled over boxes, all of it just carelessly tossed about like a child’s room.  All of it lost to rot and decay.

    
Assorted banks of candles burn hot on long built up hillocks of white wax, their light casting shadow wraiths along the walls and spark dancers over the glittering treasure.

    
Above us, strands of rope, wire, and string hang loaded with dried plants and bits of animal.  Here glass balls are caught in netting, there a strand of Christmas lights – blinking though it’s not plugged into a wall, and that way a mass of cages filled with birds and other animals – they watch us with bottomless black eyes, but remain still and silent as if stuffed.

    
Shuddering, I step closer to Connor.  “What does she do with all this stuff,” I whisper, my voice echoing over the drip-drip of stalactites on stalagmites.

    
As he winds us around a natural stone column, Connor’s shoulder muscles tense, as if the thought might make him uncomfortable.  “Dunno.”

    
Licking my lips, I continue onward, navigating the labyrinth of natural wonders buried in lost and forgotten things.  Eventually, we reach the end – a tiny depression hollowed out among the junk.

    
The fire licking around the massive black cauldron burns high and hot, the smoke venting through a crack in the ceiling.  The limestone walls are black with soot, but strange white symbols are drawn in chalk.  Shelves and mounds are neat and orderly, each basket, jar, bowl, or canister holding one particular oddity: dried herbs, twisted roots, glinting scales, white-brown bones, colorful feathers, polished stones, deep viscous liquids, stacks of furs, stacks of cloth, clutching talons.

    
I cover my mouth because it smells worse than everywhere else – like a burned house, a dead body, and the bottom of a lake all rolled into one.  Connor steps along the edge, careful to avoid the churned up mass of muck that rings the fire.  As we move into the light.  One of the rag stacks shifts and I shriek, expecting a rat.

    
Connor’s hand lashes out, covering my mouth and dragging me against him in a protective gesture.  My screech disturbed the raven perched in the corner.  He
craws
and splays his wings – his talons gripping back and forth on a dropping-strewn perch.

    
The lump of rags raises its arms and gnarled, age spotted hands reach up and pat the bird.  “Ease.  Ease.”  The voice of the rag-stack sounds like the cracking of brittle twigs and paper.  Connor’s grasp goes limp.

    
The raven settles itself and glares at me, eyes red in the light.  I duck behind Connor’s shoulder.  That is
not
a normal bird.

    
The rag-lump continues stroking the bird as it speaks.  “Connor McKinley, it has been too long since last you came to visit.”

    
Connor stiffens but doesn’t speak.

    
“I sent my mongrels out to fetch you.”  She lowers her hand and turns.  “But they never came home.”

    
I gasp, practically pasting myself against Connor.  She’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.  Crooked, beaked nose, one milky white eye, the other bulging and oozy and crusty with yellow-green puss, her skin is like sandpaper with liver spots and leprosy.  She’s hunched nearly double so she’s the height of a child, the lump on her back reaching up over her crab-apple head.  Wisps of grey and white hair stick out from the hood of a black cape, and as she takes a step forward, I notice one leg is twisted entirely around.

    
I hear Connor swallow hard.  “I thought they were Taylor’s.”

    
The woman throws her head back and cackles – revealing a mouth with gums, half filled with yellow fangs eaten through with black decay and white plaque.  The breath she emits is rancid enough to smell from across the fire.  “So you killed them?!”

    
Against my thigh, Connor’s hand clutches into a fist.

    
Her eye pinches.  “Either way, you will pay for the service I’ve provided you.”

    
“I didn’t come about that,” Connor says, sounding almost too eager to derail the witch’s attention. 

    
A bald brow wrinkles upward in interest and the oozy eye swivels in its socket, settling on me like I’m a lump of cookie dough with a cherry on top.  “Ah, you’ve brought me a fresh new maid.”

    
“She’s here to deal with you, Mushroom Woman.” There’s a warning in Connor’s voice.

    
The woman’s chin waggles, making the skin hanging from her neck wobble.  “Of course she is, boy.  Do I look blind and dumb to you?”  Connor opens his mouth, but she holds up a hand.  “Don’t answer that.”  She turns away, chuckling to herself.

    
“Now,” she croons, “you’re here, little lassie, to free the father of your child from the clutches of the Summer Queen.”  It’s not a question but a statement.

    
“Y-yes,” I manage. 

    
“Good.  Good.”  She rummages through books on one of her enumerable shelves.  “I like when a girl stands up for what she wants.  Even if it means going against someone as powerful as Roxel.  She can be a real bitch.”

    
I scoff, I can’t help it, she’s kind of funny.  Connor grabs my arm and shakes his head, making my stomach drop.  Aw crap, what did I do?

    
She turns from the books.  “What are you still doing here, boy?  I’ve got private business with this girl.”

    
Connor straightens, hesitates.

    
“I’ll see you back here after All Hallows.  And if you don’t come, I’m going to take hostages.  I think I know just the bonny golden-haired lass, too.”

    
A low, inhuman growl rumbles from Connor’s throat and his lips lift up in a snarl.  For a moment, his skin ripples and flickers like maybe it wants to do some kind of horror-movie rotation or something.  But he turns on his heel and retreats the way we came.

    
I watch him leave with desperate eyes, wanting to go with him, not wanting to be alone with this nightmare creature called Mushroom Woman.