the street, drifting from shadow to shadow as her rescuer clumped inelegantly back toward the tavern and the bright flashing lights. Mortals swarmed like disturbed bees, and she reached the safety of the dimness on the opposite side of the vibrating stain of bloodspill and death.
She paused, irresolute, on the sidewalk. Her trail was well and truly broken now. It wasn’t necessary for her to go back quite yet. She could very well salt this tale with a little more flash and bring it to Court, with the information that a green-eyed warrior breathed in the mortal world who could face a high Court Unseelie rider boiling with the plague and slay him—not as effortlessly as the Queen plucking an apple from a branch or bespelling a witless mortal man, but still. News of one who could stand against the plagued would be worth something, wouldn’t it, even if she had failed to bring back what Summer sent her for?
You’re lying even to yourself, Robin. You’re curious.
More than curious. There was a plan, hovering in the back of her nimble brain. A way to free herself, and possibly Sean, from those graceful, clutching six-fingered hands, perfumed with mortal desperation and the sweetness of apple-immortality.
For Summer was eternal. Or so it was held, in the Seelie realm.
A small clicking sound made her start. Robin whirled, and the humpbacked shape in the shadows rattled a dark leather cup at her. Dice clicked like bones inside, and her mouth went dry.
“Hullo, my dearie,” Puck Goodfellow murmured. He stood, easily, shedding the layers of shadow and glamour. “It appears you need no rescue from the hounds. How interesting.”
Robin’s fists clenched. Her heart had almost started out through her throat. “Puck!” More sharply than she intended to, her tone high and chill; the brown-haired youth eyed her warily. He wore leather, from softshod feet to leggings and laced jerkin, his bare arms moving with supple muscle under barkbrown skin. The leaf-bladed dagger at his hip glinted dully, and if the light had been better, she would have seen his hourglass pupils and the high points of his ears.
Goodfellow did not dress much to match mortals, if at all. If he wore a glamour, it was only to approach his prey more easily.
Robin backed up, two short, nervous steps, and regarded him.
“I was seeking you, to bring you a gift.” He spread his narrow, capable hands, keeping them well away from both dagger and the pipes hanging from his belt. “It occurred to me you might be followed, so when the whistles came I followed. Mayhap I would have done you a good turn.”
Mayhap you set the dogs on me yourself. I wouldn’t put it past any free sidhe, and you least of all. “You’re far from home, Goodfellow.” She was damp, she realized, with fear-sweat and poisonous, mortal acid rain. Or maybe it was the plague, settling against her skin. “And what you carry is Summer’s, not a gift you have lee to give. She will be glad of its return.” She resisted the urge to check her arms again. Tainted, Half or below, didn’t take the plague.
At least, they hadn’t yet. There had been gossip about Ilara Feathersalt, shutting herself up in a faraway bog because she saw a spot or two, even though she had a mortal great-great-however-many grandmother. Or maybe that was merely rumor, and she left Court because Summer had finally tired of Ilara’s beauty being compared to hers—or vice versa.
Robin had herself glimpsed Ilara’s gray-veiled slenderness stepping into a pumpkin-shaped carriage drawn by flame-manes one early, misty morn behind the Eldar Circle’s looming white stones. No trembling, and no breath of foulness had marred the lady’s form, but her exit had caused a buzz throughout the Court.
Goodfellow’s small laugh was another dry, bony sound. He tossed a small black silken bag; her hand flashed out and caught it. The glass ampoules inside clicked together; she examined them. Each one was sealed with colorless wax, containing a thick fluid that sparkled like firefly pixies. She muttered a chantment to rob them of the noise of clinking together and tucked them in her left-hand skirt pocket. There was time enough to shift them later, and she finally raised her gaze to Goodfellow’s. “I shall tell her of your aid. She will no doubt ask its price.”
The Fatherless grinned, sharp white teeth gleaming. “Oh, my Ragged, perhaps I am curious, curious sidhe. Perhaps I know who your dark knight-errant is, as well. What