Chapter 2
Which meant Aidan’s presence. In an orchard. Being cold.
If the faerie-horse did not appear, he’d’ve spent the night sitting on a distinctly uncomfortable splintery fence for no reason. Which would mean someone’s information had been wrong. Which was not a good thought, mostly because he was already tired and overworked, and he did not want to have thatconversation with his colleagues, not when they were alltired and overworked, after San Francisco and the selkies and the sharp-fanged loss of two agents who should’ve known better.
The bite on his shoulder, which had healed over but remained pink, sent a ghost of pain out to tap along nerve-endings as he thought about it: a reminder.
He did not run fingers over his badge, nor over the particular item he’d borrowed from the family vaults for tonight. He did not get up and go and steal an apple himself, though he contemplated it. Maybe a stolen apple would make him warmer. Maybe the apples were in fact secret embodied enchantments and could solve all his problems.
Maybe he should’ve brought gloves. Or coffee. Or actual patience.
He kicked the fence again.
Patience had historically not been his strong suit. Leather jackets and long legs and a talent for charm and a reputation as the best rising-star agent of the MED, instead. Not yet thirty years old. Nice smile. Emphatic tons of charisma. Sweet-talking witnesses and townsfolk. Impressive record of cases solved and negotiated and generally handled. Taking care of the whole southwest region these days, singlehandedly because he didn’t have much of a choice now that Len was on the wounded list.
Plus, of course, he had that othertalent. That inheritance. His family.
He grimaced at apple trees. Wondered when silent knotholes and fallen leaves had gotten quite so judgmental. Some star agent, they suggested. Not even a hat? In this autumn chill? With yourhair?
He ignored this vegetative commentary with great purpose.
He generally tried to ignore his hair as well, in much the same way. This was difficult for at least two reasons, also related to his family and that inheritance. Tonight he’d vengefully tied it up in a complicated knot. It kept finding ways to escape.
Silent, he thought again. Too silent. No wind. No rustles.
He stopped swinging his legs and sat up.
The pooka came out of moonbeams and the scent of apples and a flutter of shadows.
One moment nothing had moved; Aidan knew as much. The next moment the swirl of shapes resolved: a magic crystal, a child’s seeing-eye game, illusion made flesh. Ink and smoke and flowing grace. Rippling mane and tail. Sinuous elegance, ribboning through trees and starshine. Soundless hoofs and powerful muscle. In horse-form it moved like a wary panther and caught his gaze like a spell.
And it wasa spell. It was enchantment, sorcery, the drum-beat in veins; it was in-drawn breaths and irrepressible curiosity, a forbidden whisper. It sent scurrying shivers of autumn wind down his spine, laced in gold and purple and bronze; it pulled him off the fence and onto both feet, taking a step. He trembled with want; heat kissed the nape of his neck, throbbed under skin, pooled between thighs. Desire and bewitchment: a defense, he understood dimly, self-protection to ward off those who’d do the pooka harm; but that made it no less present.
His own magical nature leapt in response. He was shaking with impossible fascination. He wanted to be swept away: to leap onto the horse’s back, to be carried off into power and dreams and a wild endless ride—
The pooka stretched out its neck. Nibbled at an apple, delicate and fastidious as an old-fashioned lady. When it turned its head, it caught his gaze.
Aidan’s next inhale got lost in confusion, in comprehension.
That wasn’t a horse looking back. That glance was as self-aware and sarcastic and dismissive as anyone he’d ever known.
For a split second he wondered, bizarrely, whether the pooka knew about his family. Whether it felt equally disappointed in his choice of magical-cop profession.
And then he thought, angry at the faerie-spirit and at himself and at the whole damn apple orchard, oh fuck THIS—and sang a brief high wordless note that crashed through the spell like a spear.
Everything froze in shock—the pooka, the moonbeams, the apple trees—and Aidan took a step forward and slid the bridle out of his jacket and over the pooka’s astounded head.
His voice command wouldn’t hold for long—he could do more than most banshees could, given who and what he was, but on a fellow faerie-creature it’d only be a temporary effect—but it’d last long enough for the bridle to take hold.
He hoped, anyway. What good wasbeing that once-a-century male banshee child, with all that supposedly mythical power, if he couldn’t use it for restoring order?
The pooka gazed at him, trembled all over, shook its head. Hair fell wildly across its eyes. Feet stomped. Breath huffed. Flanks heaved. It flinched when Aidan held out a hand.