Motor City Witch (10 page)

“Ow!” Immediately on waking, Ric tried to push himself up, but had used his broken wrist to do it. “Fuck.”

“Stay still, dude. She’s not done fixing you yet.” George laid a gentle hand on Ric’s shoulder, holding him in place.

“Your left wrist is broken in two places. Lots of bruises. You can get up, but be careful.” Elise dragged in several deep breaths and placed both hands on the earth. This hill was a magical place, in either world, a juncture of two ley lines, and she drew a bit more of that magic into herself, recharging her energies. “Let me work on Jase now.”

“Elise?” Ric asked. “How’d you get here?”

“Through the damned cairn,” she answered. “Just me.” She couldn’t think about Aidan now, or the hot gush of blood on her hand as she’d transported.
He has to be alive.

Moving more cautiously this time, Ric sat up, drawing his legs under him, so Elise didn’t have to go over him to get to Jase. She scooted up beside the artist and shook her head as Greg put Jase’s limp hand down and started to move away. “Keep holding on to him. Love’s a powerful positive force. I can channel some of that into his healing.”

George flashed her a grateful grin and tenderly reclaimed his lover’s hand. Jase’s flak vest didn’t look damaged, so Elise laid her hands on his muscular thigh—for an artist, he was in seriously good shape—and sent her thoughts down into his damaged body. Cuts, bruises, sprains—not worth bothering with yet. The injury on his thigh had nicked a secondary artery—George’s compression bandage had undoubtedly saved Jase’s life. She healed the leg wound before moving her consciousness up to his head.

When she reached his skull, her breath whooshed out. There was a massive skull fracture, on the back of his head, causing rapid swelling of his brain. Head injuries were
tricky, even for magical healing, but all Elise’s old confidence had come roaring back. She meticulously lowered the swelling, healed the bruising on his brain and repaired the broken blood vessels and finally the bones of the skull. Damn, she was
that
good.

When she finished with that, she grounded out again and gasped for breath. Yeah, she was good, but it was taking a hell of a lot out of her to do it and hopefully, there would still be Desmond to heal.

“Hey, baby,” George said next to her. She looked over to see Jase’s deep chocolate eyes flutter open. “About time you woke up.”

Jase reached up and pulled George down into an embrace. Their lips tangled so tenderly as George smoothed back Jase’s blood-streaked dreadlocks that both Elise and Ric had to look away.

“Thanks.” Ric scrambled to his feet and held out his good hand, while he cradled his injured wrist close to his chest.

“Don’t mention it,” Elise replied, rising unsteadily and ignoring his offer of help. “I need to go check on Des. But next time, remember it’s Meagan’s life you’re risking as well as your own.”

“You might be able to pull some power from me to help.” The elf ignored her admonition, though from the emotional pain in his aura, she could tell he’d heard her. “My connection to the ley lines in this realm is stronger than yours.”

She and Ric picked their way back through the gap in the hedgerow, to find Lana and Greg had managed to dig Des out from under the collapsed cairn entrance.

“He’s still breathing,” Greg told her as she approached. “Barely.” He tossed one last rock aside from Desmond’s feet.

“I’ve got him.” Elise averted her eyes from the werewolf’s naked form. “You might want to go find some clothes.” He was shorter than Aidan and much more heavily built, with a thick swatch of dark hair on his broad, muscular chest. Nice, if you liked dark and dangerous, but he didn’t do it for her—not the way Aidan did.

“Can’t. Mine were in Toby’s saddlebags,” he said. “We haven’t found a trace of him or Eamon so far.” Of course—the Novaks had been traveling in wolf form, so their clothes had been stowed on the horses.

Ric snapped his fingers and held up a pair of knit leggings—the kind she’d seen on the elves at court. “I know they’re not your style, but they’ll fit pretty much anyone.” He tossed them to Greg as Elise began to examine her brother for injuries.

Poor Des was in worse shape than Ric and Jase put together. The first thing she had to do was keep his heart beating as it tried to stutter to a halt. Once again, she rebuilt ribs and pelvis before she went to work on his internal organs. She tried to forget this was her big brother she might not be able to save.

Even grounding and recharging twice, she’d barely gotten the life-threatening injuries taken care of when she felt her magic begin to ebb. “Ric,” she gasped. “Help.”

He laid his hands atop hers on Desmond’s body. “Take whatever you need.”

Pulling energy from Ric, she channeled enough into Des to get him up and moving—a man with a broken arm like Ric could still travel, but not with two broken legs or a fractured pelvis. By the time she had him mostly healed, both she and the bard were swaying weakly.

“There are some protein bars in my purse,” she whispered. “Please.”

Lana moved and was back in a heartbeat with Elise’s shoulder bag. “I’ve some bottled water in the saddle bags. Be right back.”

Apparently the werewolves were fully healed. Power bars and water were passed around as George and Jase joined the group.

Des sat up—his head probably still aching from the concussion she hadn’t quite been able to fix. “Hell. We’re alive. Nice work, sis. Thought for sure I’d bought it that time.” He accepted a bottle of water from Lana, giving the she-wolf a look that Elise couldn’t interpret.

“Yeah,” Elise said shakily. She tore into her protein bar and gulped it down. “We’re alive. The question is what do we do now?”

Aidan was quite certain he’d died. When he’d jumped between Elise and the bullet, he’d felt it enter his chest and known his time was up.

Odd, though. He hadn’t expected it to be cold in the Summerlands.

And whatever he was lying on was hard as well. No green, grassy meadow here.

“Wake up, Daddy. Please wake up.” A soft, small hand stroked his brow. Now that was more like it.

Daddy?

His eyes flew open—or they would have if they hadn’t been glued shut. He kept trying and eventually they cracked open, letting in a dim, murky light. He rubbed his eyes and saw a mix of dried blood and grime on his hands. That was what his eyes had been caked with. Lovely.

A small pale face with bright green eyes looked down into his own and smiled, though it too was streaked with dirt. “Finally. You took a long time to wake up.”

“Adina?”
What the sodding hell was going on?

“Of course. Silly Daddy. Who else would it be?” She patted his cheek with one small hand, which was, to his horror, covered in sticky half-dried blood. His? Her pink unicorn pajamas were spattered with it too.

“Where are we, Dina?” God, she had to be freezing in those thin cotton pajamas, with her tiny feet bare.

Her pert little face twisted into a scowl. “In jail.”

“Jail?”

Dina shrugged. “It looks like jail. I don’t like it here and I want to go home.”

Aidan suppressed a laugh. One moment she seemed so adult, the next she was merely another four-year-old girl. Groaning, he levered himself up into a seated position. Sure enough, they were in a cinderblock cell, with concrete floors and black iron bars. There was a ledge with a thin blanket along one end, but whoever had tossed him in here had thrown him on the floor. Another corner held a prison-style steel toilet bowl. What limited light there was came from a couple of bare, low-wattage bulbs in the corridor.

“Do you feel better now?” Dina bit her lower lip. “You were hurt real bad.”

Aidan looked down at his chest. His cream-colored sweater was soaked in blood and there was a hole to the left of his sternum. Fuck—the bullet had gone in. He sent a mental probe into the wound and found it completely healed—there wouldn’t even be a scar. He looked at his daughter—no, Elise’s daughter, and nodded. “I feel much better. Who healed me?”

“I did.” Her large, slanted eyes grew wide and filled with tears. “I know I’m not s’posed to unless it’s a ’mergency, but it looked real bad.”

“That’s okay, sweeting. You did the right thing.” She sniffled and Aidan couldn’t help himself. Despite knowing that he should keep his emotional distance, he lifted her onto his lap and cradled her close to his chest. Gods, she was so tiny, so fragile and yet she’d wielded enough magic to heal a mortal wound. No wonder Elise had worked carefully to protect her.

And now it was up to him to get her the hell out of this prison.

“Have you seen any other people since you’ve been in here?”

Dina snuggled into his chest and didn’t say a word. A soft sniffle escaped as she curled closer into his blood-stained sweater. Damn, she was asleep. Healers—at least the ones he’d
known—usually needed to rest after an intensive session. Dina was so young—she couldn’t have built up much endurance. She was probably physically and magically exhausted. He kissed the top of her head and held her close. Somewhere, deep in his chest, the pirate he’d once been stirred and woke.

Fuck genetics, fuck demons and double-fuck elven heredity law.

Regardless of who or what had provided half her DNA, this child was
his.
Elise was going to have to learn to cope with that fact. The rest of the world—worlds—could go take a flying leap.

And it was still up to him to get her out of this hellhole.

Rising slowly with Dina cradled in his arms, he studied his environment. The cell was about twelve feet wide and eight feet deep. The barred grate covered most of the front wall, so there would be no way to hide from a guard and bash him over the head as he opened the door, which was the middle three feet or so of the grate. Both bars and lock mechanism were cold iron which was immune to Fae magic. Aidan wouldn’t be able to telekinetically manipulate it.

Not wanting to set her down on the rough stone ledge, he tried to ’port the heavy sweater off his body to act as a mattress. It took two tries—there must be a hell of a lot of iron in this prison to cause problems with that simple magic. ’Porting objects was one of the first things a Fae child learned to do. Once he’d succeeded, he laid her down on the improvised cushion and painstakingly used his magic to clean them both up the best he could. Finally, he ’ported off his own thick wool socks and pulled them onto her feet—and nearly up to her knees, then covered her with the thin poly-fleece blanket they’d provided.

There wasn’t even food or water in here, though there was a small plastic plate and an empty lunchbox-sized water bottle next to the sleeping ledge, to show they’d been providing enough to keep her alive at least. That was something, but not enough. She was cold and terrified and way too young to be left alone. Someone was going to die for treating her this way. Slowly.

Reaching out with his magic, he tried to ’port the down comforter off his own bed. It would be as good a test as any to see if his magic could get through his prison. If that worked, he’d go for his sword. Nothing. That sucked, but it was no great surprise. Whoever built this cell definitely had caging a Fae in mind. Just in case it hadn’t worked because they were Underhill, he tried to bring the one from his room at the palace. That didn’t work either.

Across from the cell there was nothing but another cinderblock wall, as far as he could see in either direction. He couldn’t get a view down this side of the hall to see if there were other cells, or guards watching from either end.

As another experiment, he tried blinking the empty water bottle out through the bars of the cell. It didn’t work. Apparently magic wouldn’t penetrate from the cell even out into the corridor. Next, he picked up the bottle and tossed it between the bars. Ah, that seemed to work. There was no physical barrier there—the bottle bounced and rolled on the floor of the hallway, but it made no sound. Good to know. Objects could pass but sound or magic couldn’t. It went both ways, too, he discovered, as he tried to blink it back in. The small bottle lay against the far wall where it had rolled and didn’t budge.

Next test. Knowing full well this might hurt, he eased one hand between two of the iron bars, set about three inches apart. The iron stung—it was like pushing his hand through a bucket of thick acid, but he could do it. He got his arm out up to the elbow before he pulled it back in.

While he debated what to do next, a yellow plastic plate, identical to the one in this cell, came flying into his field of vision, sailing like a Frisbee along the floor of the corridor before it bounced off the opposite wall and landed right in front of the bars of Aidan’s cell. He reached through the bars and pulled the plate inside. Someone had written on it in black crayon or wax pencil,
Colin Willow. 911?

Aidan searched his jeans pockets for something to write with and came up with a small pencil he kept tucked in his passport case. He wrote on the plate.
Aidan Green Oak. Trying. Anyone else?
He moved to the far side of his cell, calculated the angles and sent the plate sailing back to carom off the far wall to the next cell.

A few minutes later it was returned with a list of three more names. Aidan recognized the first, Michael, Lord Northwood, the human spouse of a council member. The other individuals, Kayla Beech Grove and Lachlan of the Isles, were only vaguely familiar, though presumably they were related to other members of the council who’d been loyal to Queen Llyris.

Aidan took the fresh plate from the corner and wrote,
Any ideas? 411?
before sailing it back to Colin. He wished he was more up on teenage text message shorthand.

Food @ 5 am. 3 grds. Goblins. Guns.

Goblins? Fan-fucking-tastic.
Thinking,
Aidan wrote back. Taking a chance, he tried something new. Guessing at the distance between cells, he tried ’porting the plate to Colin, in case the magical barrier was only on the outside of the block of cells and not between them.

His magic was still awkward and sluggish, but it worked. A few minutes later the plate came back.
Outa I-linr.
The last of it was a faint scratch of the black waxy substance.

Eyeliner? That’s what the kid had been using to write with? Aidan laughed despite the situation and sent the pencil along with the plate this time, after writing,
Any weapons?
A goth kid might very well have chains or other interesting accoutrements on his person that the guards might or might not have been smart enough to take.

Plate and pencil returned. Also on the plate were a heavy silver bracelet and a leather dog collar with a dozen aluminum studs.
This is it. Even took boots & chains off pants.

Aidan looked down. His hiking boots were still there, as were his jeans. Probably because they’d figured he’d be dead by now. Unless—why had they put him in with Dina unless they’d wanted her to heal him?

So he had shoelaces, a leather belt and steel-toed boots. Possible weapons. The knife he’d strapped to his ankle was gone, though, damn it. He checked his watch. Only 9:30 p.m. He had most of the night to figure out a way out of this place.

***

They’d buried Daffyd under the collapsed cairn. That is, Ric had teleported the body into the soil beneath the henge. In keeping with Fae tradition, the two dead horses had been buried as well. The elves, goblins and troll had been stripped of their weapons and buried under the earth of the nearby field—no mound of stones to mark their bones.

Now it seemed, their ragtag group had to walk back to the queen’s hunting lodge. Greg and Lana were in wolf form, allowing them to use scent to scout ahead for danger, while George walked on two legs, probably so he didn’t have to let go of Jase’s hand. He did, however, carry one set of saddlebags slung over his shoulder, while Ric carried the other.

It was the first time Elise had ever been outside in the Faerie realm. Before, she’d gone straight from the Grosse Pointe house to the palace and once there, they’d gone directly to the ballroom. Even though she’d known she was in another dimension, it hadn’t quite felt real—more as if the whole palace was a secret back room attached to the mansion. Earlier today she’d seen more of the palace and gone through the portal to Edinburgh, so the only place she’d seen Underhill was still the palace, with its overwrought décor and crowds of overdressed Fae.

Being outside was…different. Here, she could see the things that set this world apart from hers, feel the magical vibrations of the land and even smell the lack of mechanical pollution in the air. “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” she muttered under her breath. Magic fairly hummed through the blades of grass and the swaying of the leaves in the soft autumnal breeze. Even though the leaves were turning—she’d spotted that before darkness had fallen—heather bloomed all over the ground lending its fragrance to the air, and birds still sung in the trees. It was warmer here, though cooler now that night had fallen. Brilliant stars littered the night sky, seeming somehow closer than they did at home.

“I wonder.” Des pulled something out of a pocket on the side of his cargo pants. He and Ric had used their magic to clean and mend their clothing to some extent and to heal a few more of their cuts and bruises. Elise had regained enough magic after half an hour of walking to be able to repair Ric’s arm, so though they were all sweaty, sore and tired, they were covered and more or less healthy. Ric had even managed to ’port in some bread and fruit and cheese from the kitchen at Rosemeade, Meagan’s family home. He’d also gotten some torches from somewhere and Des had lit them with magical flame, so they could see where they were hiking.

“Nope.” Desmond sighed in disgust. “Eamon’s tracking device has been shut down. Either it blew up, or he deactivated it. Bastard could be anywhere.”

“You think he was in on this?” Elise asked.

Her brother shrugged. “I hope not—but he did rather conveniently disappear without a trace.”

“So did Toby,” Elise pointed out.

“His device shows him back at the lodge,” Des told her.

Ric snorted. “Besides, if Toby ever turned against Aidan, I’d eat my own sword. Those two go way, way back.”

They trudged on another half mile or so, until they’d crossed a stream. Greg and Lana both yipped sharply and ran back to the group.

“I hear them,” George told his brother. He turned to the group. “Horses coming—lots of them. Hide in those trees down by the stream.” He pointed to the stream behind them which was lined with stands of willows.

They all extinguished their torches and scurried for the cover of the trees. After a few moments of breathless waiting, Elise saw a sight that made her mouth go dry. The Wild Hunt.

She’d heard of it, of course—glittering Fae lords and ladies, running wildly through the night. Old legends had it that sometimes humans were caught up and taken Underhill, never to be seen in the mortal realm again. Other stories claimed that for a human to lay eyes on the Hunt meant death. The sight was certainly beautiful enough to be mesmerizing. There were easily two dozen horses, their hooves and tack gleaming with silver. At the lead was a Fae even taller than usual, with an enormous rack of antlers sticking out of either side of his head. Another ten or twelve armored Fae followed, some with drawn swords that seemed to
glow blue or red or green. Several of the horses were without riders, or even saddles, but they moved in perfect concert with the others. The only thing missing were the baying hounds. Somehow, Elise had always thought there would be dogs.

When the leader reached the bridge, across from their hiding place, he stopped and all the other horses drew to a halt as well, as if they were psychically linked. The horned leader raised one hand.

“Come out. I promise safe passage back to the lodge.”