of France in her bestiary. It was edged by a vast ocean—tribe Mer-de-Soleil territory; merfolk and selkies and kelpies abounded there. But she had no measurement for distance in this land. Unless it was down. So she must rely on Ulrich’s navigation.
Many Faery tribes inhabited the realm the mortals called France: the Rougethorns, the Wisogoths, the Quinmarks, just a few. Yes, a huge nation, and she but an itty speck skipping toward sure danger. If she wasn’t careful she might lose her grip and fall—as she had once amidst the tangle of roots that reticulated about Glamoursiège. Avenall—her Rougethorn; ever charming and chivalrous—had caught her then.
Who would catch her now?
“No.” Ulrich’s voice had receded. “Not now. A crossroads? Wicked luck. Now this is the same.”
With every step Gossamyr felt the world close about her as if the cloak wrapped tightly against her flesh. Enchantment sluiced from her pores; she could feel it as a tangible prick. An ache hummed in her heart, a central tremor that called from the shadows of mortality. Home, it whispered. Embrace it.
No, no, no! Home was Faery. Not here.
Gossamyr fought back the invisible enemy, but the ache did settle to a fine pulse, ever there. ’Twas the mortal passion, vying to wend into her veins.
“Be damned with you all!”
Gossamyr stopped and swung about. Neither Fancy nor Ulrich were in sight. But she could hear him…talking to someone?
“I beseech thee to allow me passage. No? Very well, that way. Yes, follow my direction. You there, follow the finger. Up, up and away with you. Bloody saints, I shall be here all through the night!”
“Ulrich?” Gossamyr stepped cautiously through the sooty darkness. The whisper of a breeze through the long reeds that lined the path danced them to a crisp shimmy. Her bare feet made not a sound on the dirt road. The cloak whipped out behind her.
She spied Fancy, unloosed and grazing over a patch of clover. Another outburst from Ulrich stirred Gossamyr to a trot, her staff held horizontal and shoulder level, ready to spear.
“Another? Be patient; wait your turn. This way. Not so pushy!”
“Ulrich?” Now Gossamyr could make out the gray outlines of Ulrich’s head, bowed and swaying as if in deep thought. She veered from her approach as he swung out a hand and pointed starward.
“You. Yes, you next!”
“Whom are you speaking to?” There was not another person in the vicinity. To be sure, Gossamyr turned a complete circle—staff cutting the night—scanning the circumference. Scentless, the air. Strange, she did neither smell the dirt or grass. She noted they stood at a crossroad, Ulrich exact center.
When she turned back to him his body jerked, as if tugged from behind, and he leaped about to face the empty darkness.
Could it be a creature from the Netherdred? One who stood yet on the Faery side of the rift, invisible yet capable of affecting the Otherside? She should be able to see anything that stood in Faery if it connected with this world. Why could she not—
“If you cannot afford me the virtue of patience,” Ulrich announced to no one, “I shall see you to Hades where you belong. Be gone!”
“Ulrich!” She leaped forward and gripped the man by the shoulders. If he had succumbed to a glamour, perhaps her contact could unloose him. Because he was rigid and jumpy and jerking in her grasp, her fingers could not maintain hold. The vexing cloak impeded her and she toppled, but caught herself with the staff. “You speak to the night. What is to you, man? Be you luna-touched?”
“Get me free from here,” he growled. A flick of his head to the left and he addressed another unseen entity. “Heaven? You who takes your own life asks very much!”
“Is it the Netherdred?” she pleaded.
“I know not of nether dreads—only the dreads that stand before me. Ah! I must concentrate!”
The man had stepped into a realm that frightened even Gossamyr. She could feel not a presence. No smell or sound could be pulled from the confusion of the moment. She tugged Ulrich’s arm, but resistance tensed in her grasp. And yet, the man did not pull himself from her. ’Twas is if he were bestiffened.
Banshees? she wondered. No, they were visible figments of white wailing women. Ghosts? She had not experience with the sort; ghosts aligned themselves with wizards, witches and forbidden magic.
“I have not the leisure for you all,” Ulrich shouted and twisted from Gossamyr’s hold. “I will die of old age to send you each in his turn. Faery Not, pull harder!”
“I am trying,” Gossamyr said. She clutched him about the waist and planted her toes in the loose dirt. It was as if he were being held to the center of the roads, fixed with nails pounded through the soles of his soft-bottomed shoes. Yet she felt not a single presence. “What is it? A spectral creature I cannot see?”
“Hundreds,” Ulrich cried. “Take my hands.”
Twisting under his outstretched arm, Gossamyr seized the man’s hands. Though the darkness shadowed features, the agony on his face showed strongly. As their palms joined, Gossamyr felt cold tremor through her forearms and up her shoulders.
Horrors! A chill greater than winter’s bite trickled through her bones. “I can feel them,” she uttered.
Pushing with all her might, she succeeded in moving Ulrich from the center of the crossed roads while he shouted and protested with the unseen forces. Together they shuffled backward. Her toes stepped onto grass. Fancy snorted and clopped from their way. Finally, Ulrich tripped and went down. Gossamyr fell forward onto his chest, collapsing with a huff. The distinctive rip of dried leaves sounded.
Breath wheezed from Ulrich’s lungs. Reaching back, Gossamyr felt over her pourpoint. A rent down the center, up to her midsection, she determined.
Now even the crickets silenced. Dark surrounded; the eyelash moon ignored this little crossroad. Lying atop Ulrich, Gossamyr grew aware of his breaths, short and hot. The chill had slithered off as if it had not bitten her so sharply. The man had been assaulted in a manner she could not comprehend. But that she had rescued him from an unseen assailant seemed apparent.
She gave a jerk of her head to swish back the heavy corner of the cloak from her face. “Are you fine and well?”
A burst of laughter shook him beneath her.
Gossamyr bent her legs and knelt over him, trying to assess his condition. Eyes closed, and his breathing still fast, was all she could remark. No cold—yet she had felt his flesh to be as ice when gripping his hands. She scented not blood, but when she thought to touch his face—check for wounds—she recalled the bruise. A touch would not be welcome to his tender flesh.
Pushing up, Gossamyr stood and struggled with the cumbersome cloak. The heavy fabric twisted between her legs. “Blight!”
Ulrich remained on his back. Short bursts of laughter continued, so she judged him safe. But sound?
Plodding up from behind, Fancy nudged her warm nose into Gossamyr’s palm. With contact, fear flowed out from her. A glance to the crossroads sighted only stillness. Whatever
