Jack, the giant-killer by Charles De Lint Page B

ago that only the Laird’s folk held Kinrowan and the Host kept to its own reaches. He could still remember when it was safe to have a gathery-up of hobs anywhere you pleased, and never have to worry about bogans or the restless dead. But times had changed, and were still changing, and none for the better.
    “Oh, damn,” he muttered again, scowling at his feet. Gyre the Younger had this hob’s smell, yes he did. And if he wanted, he could set the Hunt on him—just like he’d done to poor old Redfairn Tom. Finn’s anger turned to sorrow, thinking of his cousin, and then he remembered Jacky. He sighed and rose silently to his feet. He supposed he had better fetch her.
    What he’d told her was true: he wouldn’t let anyone fall into the clutches of the Host. Not if he could help it. But that didn’t explain why he’d told her all that he had or why he’d gifted her with stitcheries. That was more than just help, but it had seemed right at the time. Just as his leading the giant away from her had been, and going to fetch her now was. They, too, seemed like things that must be done. It was poor Tom’s cap, he supposed. That had made him feel kindly to her at first. And then there was her name.
    He set off at a grumbling walk, hoping she’d had the good common sense to head off for a safe place once he’d led Gyre the Younger away. She was an odd sort of a girl, he thought. Brave and frightened all at the same time. Fey as his own kin sometimes, but then so bloody mortal it made him wonder that a stitchery spell would even work for her. Oh, but it took all sorts, now didn’t it?
    He didn’t wonder too much about what had
    happened between her and the Gruagagh in the Gruagagh’s Tower—at least not until he was on Auch Ward Way, with the Tower in front of him, and no sign of her anywhere around. He should have been able to trace the trail of his own stitcheries—a trail not one of the Host would sense, though perhaps the Hunt could. The Hunt followed the smell of your soul. It was as he cast up and down the street, then finally snuck into the neighbouring back yards to assure himself that she wasn’t still huddled by the hedge, that he realized what had happened.
    “What game’s he playing now?” he muttered.
    For he remembered the Gruagagh’s brooch he’d seen pinned to her jacket and knew that it was some spell of the Gruagagh’s that was stopping him from following the lingering trail of his own stitcheries. He paused in the middle of the street, scowling through his beard. He debated going back to his lookout tree by the Gruagagh’s Tower, but he knew that the Big Man would be watching it very closely now.
    So he needed a new tree to perch in—and what?
    Should he follow the girl, or leave her to her own devices? He was partly responsible for whatever she was up to, that much was certain. He’d given her stitcheries and pointed the way to the Gruagagh’s door. He wondered if the Gruagagh had told her where the Horn was and if she truly meant to go after it. Only what if it had been the Gruagagh who had set that giant after her?
    “Oh, I don’t like thinking,” he told the empty street. Cloaked with the stitcheries sewn into his own coat, he crept into the back yard of a house a few doors down from the Gruagagh’s Tower and stole a quick peek out across the park. When he saw just the one rider on his Harley and the giant still gone, he knew trouble was brewing. The giant would be fetching his kin—or the Horn to call up the Hunt-while the missing rider would be following Jacky.
    He had to find her first. He was the one who had filled her head with all that nonsense about asking the Gruagagh for help and rescuing the Laird’s daughter. Scowling at the dark shadow of the Gruagagh’s Tower, he made his way back to the street. Deciding to find her was one thing, he realized once he stood there. Only where did he begin?
    “Oh, damn,” he muttered.
    Choosing a direction at random, he set off. But