Hellforged (19 page)

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Authors: Nancy Holzner

Tags: #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #General, #Demonology

BOOK: Hellforged
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“Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”
Pryce hoisted my duffel bag. “Let’s get you to the house. I know Mab is anxious to see you.”
 
A BLACK PORSCHE WAITED IN A NO-PARKING ZONE IN FRONT of the station. Pryce tossed my bag in the trunk and then opened the passenger door for me with a sweeping gesture. “Your carriage awaits,” he said with a grin.
The smile emphasized how good-looking he was, erasing his grim expression and making the corners of his eyes tilt up. Yet there was no sparkle or gleam. You know how some people’s smiles light up a room? Pryce wasn’t one of those people. His smile felt more like a cloud had crossed the sun. It was those dark, light-eating eyes.
Then again, the whole world felt darker around the edges in my sleep-deprived state.
I’d barely fastened my seatbelt when Pryce accelerated and sped across the car park, fishtailing. Maybe we were going to fly to Maenllyd.
On the main road, though, he slowed down. Good thing, too. Once it left the village, the road became a country lane with high hedges on both sides as it twisted up and down through the hills. The road was too narrow for two cars to easily pass each other, so there were periodic lay-bys where one car could squeeze up against the hedge to let the other go past.
I studied Pryce’s profile as he drove. He had a square jaw, with hints of a five-o’clock shadow at half past three, and a long, straight nose. Those features kept his dark eyelashes from making him too pretty. A shock of black hair fell sideways across his forehead.
He didn’t look like anyone in my family.
Should I be worried? I’d climbed into a car with a complete stranger. Admittedly not my smartest move. But the stationmaster had called him by name, which made Pryce seem a little less sinister. And we were on the road to Mab’s house. If he passed Maenllyd’s gate, there was a sharp turn up the road that was impossible to take fast. If I had to, I could jump out of the car at that spot.
Or maybe Pryce could clarify the family connection and I could quit feeling paranoid. That sounded like a better idea than gearing up to hurl myself from the car.
“I’m probably too jet-lagged to think straight,” I said, “but I can’t figure out this cousin thing. I didn’t know I had a cousin. I mean, Mab is my only aunt, and she never had children.”
Pryce threw his head back and laughed. “No, you’re right there.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Our Mab as a mum. Amusing to imagine, you must admit.”
“But my dad had no other siblings. So …”
I thought he was going to laugh again, but he swallowed it. A small, tight smile returned the grimness to his face. “Surely you don’t believe Mab was Evan’s sister.”
Well, he knew my father’s name, at least. “She’s my aunt.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. More like … a great-aunt.” Again, that private smile.
I thought about the last time the three of us had been together—Dad, Aunt Mab, and me—at dinner the night my father died. We’d been laughing around the table; Dad was the only person I knew who could make Mab crack a smile, let alone laugh. Even to my eighteen-year-old eyes, Dad had looked young that night, his eyes sparkling with good humor. Mab, at the head of the table, had caught that sparkle, but her white hair and lined face made her seem old enough to be his mother. She could easily have been seventy to his forty-five. Now, I realized that I’d always lumped Aunt Mab in with all the other grown-ups. Like my parents, she was older than me and therefore just
old
. It was the perspective of someone very young and self-centered, but I’d never thought to question it.
Okay, it was possible. Maybe Mab was my grandfather’s sister, not my father’s.
“So where do you fit into the family?” I asked.
He slid his gaze sideways toward me, then went back to watching the road. “Don’t you ever wonder about dear Aunt Mab? Who is she, exactly? What’s your actual relationship?”
“No, I don’t.” I didn’t like his oily tone. “She’s always been my aunt Mab, ever since I was born. I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but—”
“I? Insinuate? My dear cousin, I would never presume to insinuate anything. My apologies if it seemed that way.”
I half-turned in my seat to see whether he was mocking me, but he radiated sincerity. I’d probably misunderstood him. Half an hour ago, I’d passed out from exhaustion and hunger, so misunderstandings were definitely within the realm of possibility.
The Porsche turned right, and I relaxed as we passed through a stone gateway and onto the driveway that, after a long curve, led to Maenllyd. I craned to get a glimpse of the house.
“To answer your question,” Pryce said, “I’m what you might call a distant cousin. We share a common ancestor at a more remote point in history.”
“Oh, well, that makes sense.” He was Cerddorion—that was all he meant. Probably a sixth cousin twice removed or something like that. But I lost interest in Pryce as Maenllyd came into view. Breathtaking. A gray stone house, L-shaped, three stories high with a slate roof against a distant background of misty purple mountains.
Home.
If there was any place in the world I could really call home, it was Maenllyd.
“Can you guess?” Pryce asked.
I kept my eyes on the house. “Guess what?”
“Our common ancestor.”
“I don’t know. A great-grandparent, I suppose. On Mom’s side?”
He laughed. “Further back than that, cousin. Much further. I’m referring to the goddess Ceridwen herself.”
“But—” Exhaustion was fogging my brain, because from what I’d just heard, Pryce was stating the obvious, like saying we had a lot in common because we both breathed air. “But all Cerddorion are descended from Ceridwen.”
He pulled into the gravel courtyard in front of Maenllyd and stopped the car. When he looked at me, his opaque eyes tugged unpleasantly at my soul. “Ah, but I’m not Cerddorion.”
“Then what—” The front door opened and Mab came down the stone steps. She was as poker-straight and dignified as always, but I could see she was hurrying.
God, it was wonderful to see her.
I opened my door and leapt from the car. The world wobbled as a fresh wave of dizziness hit, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I ran to my aunt and threw my arms around her. It was a little like hugging the wooden statue of Saint David in the village church, but I was used to that. She smelled like lavender. Mab tolerated my embrace, then gave me three brisk, light pats on the back:
onetwothree
. I’d always counted those pats—there were always three—ever since I was a child. Now, Mab followed them up with a quick squeeze. She was happy to see me, too.
I stepped back and grinned at her. She looked past my shoulder and frowned.
I turned. Pryce had gotten out of the Porsche and was leaning against the driver’s side door. “Hello, Mab. You never told me your niece was so charming.” He put a slight, sour emphasis on
niece
.
“I’m sure I’ve never told you anything about her.” Mab’s eyes were as cold as if she were staring down a demon. “And now you may leave my property.”
Pryce’s smile didn’t falter, but it grew as icy as Mab’s stare. He walked to the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and got out my bag. He kept his distance, setting the bag down near the car. Then he bowed to me, a stiff, courtly movement. “A pleasure, cousin.”
Mab’s frown deepened.
“Thanks for the ride,” I called as he slid back into the driver’s seat.
Gravel shot out from under the tires as he peeled out of the courtyard.
Mab stared after him until the Porsche disappeared around the driveway’s curve. Only then did her features relax.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“Come,” she said, taking my hand and tucking it under her arm. “You need to rest. Jenkins will attend to your bag.” She started toward the front steps.
“Mab …” I dug in my heels.
“I’m not patronizing you, child. There will be time for explanations later. Now you must sleep.”
Sleep, I had to admit, sounded like a terrific idea. “Okay, but I’ll carry my own bag.” I went over and picked up the duffel bag, getting the strap over my shoulder and lifting with my legs. No dizziness. I tucked my arm in my aunt’s, and together we walked into her house.
“I’ve had your old room made up,” she said as we entered the paneled front hall. “But of course, if you’d prefer any of the guest rooms …”
I shook my head. My first summer at Maenllyd, Mab let me choose the room where I’d sleep. I’d picked a narrow third-floor bedroom—previously a maid’s room—because I loved the sloping ceiling and the view of the mountains. Even now, I wouldn’t consider sleeping anywhere else.
Jenkins, Mab’s driver, gardener, and general handyman, entered the hall through a side door. “It’s our Miss Vicky come back to us at last!” he exclaimed, and kissed the top of my head as though I were a small child. Jenkins is six-three and built like a rugby player, so he can do that.
“Hello, Jenkins. It’s great to see you. How’ve you been?”
“Right as rain, Miss Vicky, right as rain. When your aunt’s not running me to exhaustion.” He twinkled at Mab. “Speaking of exhaustion, hand over that bag. I’ll just nip upstairs with it.”
I started to protest, then thought about climbing two flights of stairs, the second flight steep and narrow, up to my room. The idea made me want to sink down and fall asleep right here on the parquet floor. “Thank you, Jenkins.”
He plucked the bag from my shoulder and took the stairs two at a time.
“We’ll get you to bed in a few minutes, child, but first come with me to the kitchen. Rose is there.”
I followed her through the dining room, down a narrow hallway, and into the cavernous kitchen at the back of the house. By the big pine table stood Rose, Jenkins’s wife, looking exactly as I remembered her: plump and red-cheeked, strands of fair hair escaping her ponytail, wearing a pink-and-green floral apron smudged with flour. She ran over and folded me in a soft, warm hug that smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. “Oh, welcome home!” she cried. She let up on the hug long enough to tell Mab she’d put the kettle on, then pressed me to her again. I hugged back. I’ve always liked Rose. In the summers I’d spent here, her kindness often cushioned my aunt’s sternness.
We exchanged bits of small talk, and Rose said, “I’ll leave you two be, then.” She patted my hand. “Plenty of time to chat tomorrow.” With that, she bustled out of the kitchen.
“Sit, child,” Mab said. “I’m going to brew you some herbal tea. It will ensure that your sleep is free of dreams.”
Perfect.
Take that, Destroyer.
I sat at the table while Mab got out the teapot and busied herself measuring dried leaves from various jars. I ran a hand along the table. It was silky smooth, worn from many years of use. In front of where I sat, along the bottom edge, were notches I’d made the summer I was fifteen and feeling rebellious. Mab was often hard on me—too hard, I’d thought. All my friends were having fun during vacation, and here I was slaving away, trying to please a teacher who was a hundred times tougher than any at school. So that summer I vowed I’d cut a notch for each time Mab said “Good job.” And I had. I’d sawed those notches with a butter knife. I ran my thumb over them now. All three of them.
Mab was a hard teacher, but she’d taught me well. Or so I’d thought, until Difethwr invaded my dreams.
“Tomorrow,” Mab said, “I’ll show you how to brew this tea. But bear in mind it’s only a temporary solution.”
My head drooped, partly because I was so tired—but partly because I was ashamed. I’d lost control of my own dreamscape.
“Don’t fret, child.” The kettle boiled, and Mab poured hot water into the teapot. The rising steam was fragrant with herbs—mossy, with hints of pine and flowers whose names I didn’t know. It smelled relaxing, like a safe, shady forest glade where a person could lie down and rest. Mab sat beside me and patted my hand,
onetwothree
. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Everything is unfolding as it must. Believe that.”
“But you don’t know what’s happened.” Thinking of T.J. and Gary and Sykes, I shuddered. “Terrible things.”
“I know more than you imagine. But now is not the time to discuss it. Tomorrow we’ll talk. And we’ll begin doing what we must do. Now, it’s time for you to sleep.” She looked at her watch. “The tea needs to steep for a few minutes more. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for bed? I’ve laid out a nightgown for you.”
The only time I ever wore nightgowns was at Maenllyd; I usually slept in sweats and a T-shirt. But the thought of putting on a clean nightgown and finally being able to lie down, snuggle under the covers, and unclench brought tears to my eyes.
“Go on,” Mab said. “I’ll bring up your tea.”
I took the back stairs from the kitchen to the third floor. Climbing those stairs felt like climbing Mount Snowdon, and I was grateful to Jenkins for carrying my bag. Five minutes later I wore a nightgown—white flannel sprinkled with violets, ruffles at the wrists and neck. I’d never choose it for myself. But it was clean and soft and warm and it smelled wonderful, like a gentle wind blowing up from the valley.

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