I am still standing,” she offered, unable to hide a playful grin.
“You, my lady—” he stabbed the air before her with a finger “—are not a woman.”
“I am so!”
“You are a faery.”
“The correct term is fée.”
“Fée, faery, banshee, witch! For all my troubles are caused by the like.” He kicked the dirt path and dust rose up about his parti-colored ankles.
Swoon? More like clap him with the tip of her staff. A banshee? Truly? Gossamyr knew of no root swamps—the banshees’ usual haunt—but the rift had increased the likelihood of mortals in Faery, as well it let out more from Faery to torment the Otherside.
This moment she likely stood near Netherdred territory.
“Have you a name, faery? Or would that be encroaching upon your person to inquire such? I do know should a faery give his name complete he would hand over his power.”
As well, a fée garnered much control over the mortal with his complete name. Jean César Ulrich Villon III. Quite the mouthful. Were she full-blooded, Gossamyr could work an erie upon his tongue to silence him.
“I am not afraid of your taunts.”
“Prove it with the gift of your name.”
A challenge? Such daring stirred her blood. She was beginning to like this man, despite his barmy nature.
“It is…” Gossamyr paused.
Never give your name to a mortal. They use magic, and can command your compliance by repeating it thrice. You will be beholden to their cruel wishes.
Caged and taunted, kept as a pet…
“My lady?”
A schusch of wind danced the leaves overhead into a rising cheer. Nearby, Fancy snuffled over a patch of clover.
“Twas only her name complete which would give away her power. The mortal had no means to discover that. “You may call me Gossamyr.”
“Gossamyr.” He whistled through the space in his teeth. “What sort of name be that? Gaelic? Irish? Not a bloody Scot, are you?”
“You talk too much.”
“And you are far too impudent for a woman.” He danced with his speech, as if it a natural extension of his thoughts. Into a circle about her, but too far for her to touch or even scent. “What be your destination? And whom have you left behind? Surely there is a father or husband who mourns your absence. And so alone.”
“I am not alone—achoo!—I am with you.”
He eyed her staff, held at shoulder level like a pike ready for launch. “Mayhap not. But there is something about me you should know.”
“What be that?”
A splay of his beringed fingers before him caught the fading sunlight in a rainbow of glints. Moving his hands like snakes slinking through the air, he bemused with his extravagant motions. “I have always had a weakness for sparkly things.” Another wink seemed to please him immensely.
Sparkly things? Gossamyr felt a strange warmth rise in her face. She lowered her staff and looked away so he could not see her discomfort. The blazon must be shed. Soon.
“I merely require direction to the next village,” she said. “Is it very large? I must purchase a swift horse and, as you suggest, some clothing.”
“Yes, I favor a fine dress of damask for you. And long red ribbons for the plaits in your hair.”
Gossamyr snorted and flipped the silver-tipped end of one of her thick plaits back over her shoulder. “Ribbons? Do you romance me, then? I’ll have you know I do not succumb to a man’s charm so easily—”
“Bloody hell!”
Gossamyr froze, the tone of Ulrich’s voice alerting her to the vibrations now obvious in the ground. Vibrations increasing in strength and moving toward them. She’d been so busy chaffering she hadn’t been paying attention.
“Don’t look now, Gossamyr, but you are soon to discover consorting with Jean César Ulrich Villon III is not for the faint of heart.”
Gossamyr did look. And what she saw loosed her demon-take-me smile.
The silhouette of a wide, squat figure barreled toward them. Dust plumed about it in a furious cloud. It wasn’t a man. It wasn’t even mortal.
Danger had arrived.
FOUR
Gossamyr swung her staff, bending into a defensive stance. She hooked the applewood parallel beneath her outstretched right arm. Peripheral vision sighted Ulrich, stalking up beside her, his fists bared and swinging for fight. “If you’ve not a bigger or pointier weapon, then stand back!”
“I’ve the will to survive, my lady, so you stand back.”
“I know what I’m doing!”
“As do I!”
“Do stay out of my way!”
She spun to catch the bogie in the gut with the steel-hard staff. Impact shook her feet from the ground. Tottering two steps to the left, she found her balance.
Ulrich yelped. She spied him shaking a fist that obviously had more impact on himself than the bogie’s hindquarters.
The beast let out a yowl and gripped her staff. The span of that grip covered a third of the longstaff. Gossamyr leaned backward to counter the attack. Landing her derriere shocked stinging prinkles up and down her spine. Shaking the vibrations from her skull she leaped to her feet, drawing the staff before her in a half arc of warning.
Bogies were dumb as wood, but when enraged were difficult to contend. Usually they were more breath than roar—and oh, did their foul breath wield a malodorous bite. Their square bulky bodies were solid as stone, save, their bald, flat heads; the skull proved thinner than parchment. Only problem was climbing the mountain of bogie to reach the prize.
A vicious wind of foul breath and gnashing incisors rose up behind Gossamyr. She spun, prepared to defend. The bogie shrieked and tumbled midair, soaring over her head, and landed the ground behind her.
Gossamyr pierced Ulrich with a dagger of a look.
The man countered with his own cocky wink and a tilt of the crossbow he wielded. “I’m keeping my distance!”
Rolling and shrieking, the squat brown bogie stirred up the dirt from the ground in a billowing cloud. The crossbow quarrel—wedged in the bogie’s gut—splintered and was crushed to pulp. Now the beast lay prone, its skull level with Gossamyr’s shoulder.
“Leave him for me!” Gossamyr yelled. Levering her leg back to force momentum through her body, she swung hard, meeting wood
