was holding, thus far; no humans had shown up to discover our unwanted hitchhiker and freak out as a natural consequence. Most fae know when an illusion is being cast on them. I didn’t dare use a don’t-look-here on the monster; that might just wake it up, and I had serious doubts about whether it was going to wake up friendly.
The smell of limes and cedar smoke drifted from the clearing behind us a half-second before I heard footsteps crunching on the blanket of fallen leaves covering the dry ground. I turned, relieved, to see Sylvester and Etienne stepping out of a hole cut into the air.
“Your Grace,” I said, dipping a quick curtsy. Etienne’s eyes were fixed on my face as I straightened, clearly searching for the answer to a question he wasn’t willing to voice aloud. I gave a small shake of my head. He looked disappointed, but nodded.
Sylvester looked between us, one eyebrow raised. “Is there something I should know?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“There are times when I wish I didn’t trust you quite so thoroughly,” said Sylvester, looking faintly amused. “I am glad you called me.”
“Who else am I going to call when there’s a monster on my car?” Still, I let him pull me into a hug, taking a moment—just a moment, but a precious one—to relax into the dogwood and daffodil smell of his arms. Sylvester has meant safety my whole life, ever since the night he stepped out of the air and asked whether I wanted to be fae or human. It’s supposed to be your fae parent whooffers you the Changeling’s Choice. Amandine wouldn’t, so he did. He’s been a sort of father to me ever since, even when I wasn’t willing to admit that to myself.
Like Quentin, Sylvester is Daoine Sidhe. Also like Quentin, Sylvester is upsettingly attractive, with hair the color of fox fur and eyes like summer honey. Every Torquill I’ve ever met has had those eyes. He used to be a hero, before he retired to Shadowed Hills and took up full-time regency. He’s also the man who taught me how to hold a sword, although he’s a hell of a lot better than I’m ever likely to be. I attribute it to a combination of natural talent and centuries of practice.
Sylvester let me go, stepping back. “Now,” he said. “About this monster.”
I appreciated that he wasn’t going to take this as an opportunity to remind me that I was welcome at Shadowed Hills whenever I wanted to come, or to tell me I didn’t visit enough. Shadowed Hills had meant Connor for too long, during the years when he was married to Sylvester’s daughter, Rayseline. I was already haunted by my own memory. I didn’t need to be haunted by the halls where my lover had lived.
Motioning for everyone to be quiet, I waved Sylvester and Etienne to the edge of the trees and pointed to the brown hulk atop my car. Sylvester gasped. And then he did the last thing I expected: he left the cover of the trees and ran, empty-handed, toward the monster.
“Sylvester!” I hissed. I whipped around to stare at Etienne. “Stop him! He’s going to get hurt!”
Etienne had an odd look on his face, like he was unsure whether or not he was dreaming. “No,” he said, slowly. “I don’t believe he is.”
“Whoa,” said Quentin.
I turned back to the parking lot. Sylvester had reached the creature and was scratching it behind one of its small round ears. The creature was awake, and seemed to be enjoying the attention; it was wagging its spadelike tail, slamming it against my car’s rear windshield.
“What the…?”
“It is an Afanc,” said Etienne, sounding stunned. “There is an Afanc atop your car.”
My own eyes widened. “What? No. That’s not possible. Afanc don’t exist anymore.”
“The evidence would seem to suggest otherwise.”
I just stared. Afanc are fae monsters, like Barghests or bogeys. They live in lakes and marshes and are reasonably harmless, as long as you don’t startle them and get yourself drowned. At least, that’s what the old stories
The smell of limes and cedar smoke drifted from the clearing behind us a half-second before I heard footsteps crunching on the blanket of fallen leaves covering the dry ground. I turned, relieved, to see Sylvester and Etienne stepping out of a hole cut into the air.
“Your Grace,” I said, dipping a quick curtsy. Etienne’s eyes were fixed on my face as I straightened, clearly searching for the answer to a question he wasn’t willing to voice aloud. I gave a small shake of my head. He looked disappointed, but nodded.
Sylvester looked between us, one eyebrow raised. “Is there something I should know?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“There are times when I wish I didn’t trust you quite so thoroughly,” said Sylvester, looking faintly amused. “I am glad you called me.”
“Who else am I going to call when there’s a monster on my car?” Still, I let him pull me into a hug, taking a moment—just a moment, but a precious one—to relax into the dogwood and daffodil smell of his arms. Sylvester has meant safety my whole life, ever since the night he stepped out of the air and asked whether I wanted to be fae or human. It’s supposed to be your fae parent whooffers you the Changeling’s Choice. Amandine wouldn’t, so he did. He’s been a sort of father to me ever since, even when I wasn’t willing to admit that to myself.
Like Quentin, Sylvester is Daoine Sidhe. Also like Quentin, Sylvester is upsettingly attractive, with hair the color of fox fur and eyes like summer honey. Every Torquill I’ve ever met has had those eyes. He used to be a hero, before he retired to Shadowed Hills and took up full-time regency. He’s also the man who taught me how to hold a sword, although he’s a hell of a lot better than I’m ever likely to be. I attribute it to a combination of natural talent and centuries of practice.
Sylvester let me go, stepping back. “Now,” he said. “About this monster.”
I appreciated that he wasn’t going to take this as an opportunity to remind me that I was welcome at Shadowed Hills whenever I wanted to come, or to tell me I didn’t visit enough. Shadowed Hills had meant Connor for too long, during the years when he was married to Sylvester’s daughter, Rayseline. I was already haunted by my own memory. I didn’t need to be haunted by the halls where my lover had lived.
Motioning for everyone to be quiet, I waved Sylvester and Etienne to the edge of the trees and pointed to the brown hulk atop my car. Sylvester gasped. And then he did the last thing I expected: he left the cover of the trees and ran, empty-handed, toward the monster.
“Sylvester!” I hissed. I whipped around to stare at Etienne. “Stop him! He’s going to get hurt!”
Etienne had an odd look on his face, like he was unsure whether or not he was dreaming. “No,” he said, slowly. “I don’t believe he is.”
“Whoa,” said Quentin.
I turned back to the parking lot. Sylvester had reached the creature and was scratching it behind one of its small round ears. The creature was awake, and seemed to be enjoying the attention; it was wagging its spadelike tail, slamming it against my car’s rear windshield.
“What the…?”
“It is an Afanc,” said Etienne, sounding stunned. “There is an Afanc atop your car.”
My own eyes widened. “What? No. That’s not possible. Afanc don’t exist anymore.”
“The evidence would seem to suggest otherwise.”
I just stared. Afanc are fae monsters, like Barghests or bogeys. They live in lakes and marshes and are reasonably harmless, as long as you don’t startle them and get yourself drowned. At least, that’s what the old stories
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