foot flicked out, catching the weedy mortal in his midriff and sending him stagger-flying back into the crumbling porch. Wood splintered, more blood spattered, this time from broken ends scraping the thrashing mortal body. â
Jenny you biiiiitch, you biiiiitch!
â
Does he think my name is Jenny?
Crenn shook his head, his hair swaying. It didnât matter. Nor did whatever crime heâd committed inside the dark cave. What mattered was finding Robin.
And yet⦠was there anyone alive in that slumping, glittering, tired old shack? Someone who could perhaps use aid? The blood on the mortal was fresh, and not all of it was his.
Crenn hesitated as the mortal moaned and thrashed even more. He had to find Robin.
What would Gallow do? He was the one her gaze followed, the one Robin flung herself into danger for. If Crenn wished toâ¦
He swore softly, a vicious curse in the Old Language that tore another chunk from the mess of splinters and moaning mortal that was the porch. One of the posts had pierced the mortalâs back, jetting from the front of his belly, slick with blood and a battlefield stench of ordure.
Nothing stank quite like human bowels, not even in the rotting recesses of Marrowdowne.
Crenn leapt lightly, balancing on a broken spar. Underneath him, the skinny mortal moaned for Jenny afresh. Bile touched the back of Crennâs throat as he tore the screen door off its hingesâthe damn thing was a nuisance. He plunged into the darkness beyond.
A few moments ticked by, full of the whisper of wind on dead, blasted grass and throbbing green blackberry vines. The mortal in the ruins of the porch twitched, coughed up bright blood, and the knife dropped from his paw. He exhaled, a long final rattle, and had ceased to move by the time Crenn, pale under his dark hair, rocketed out of the stinking abattoir inside. A few paces away from the shattered porch Crenn leaned over, in the hot sunshine, and retched. Nothing came outâhis stomach would not give up its cargo so easilyâbut still.
The wind, now heavier, stroked his hair and leathers, touched his fouled boots. It carried distant sirens drawing nearerâsome of the stealthy movements in the other tin rectangles were watching, perhaps.
Alastair Crenn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shook his head. His hair swayed, the last bits of dried moss crackling and crumbling green, and he stamped his boots, chantment flickering. The stains were easy enough to shed, and after he did so he ran along the side of the house, following the tugging along his nerves and muscles, leading him onward.
Even Gallow wouldnât have been able to help them,
he thought, and suppressed another flare of nausea.
Whoever Jenny was, he hoped she wouldnât return.
ROBINâS ROAD
11
D usk fell in sheaves of indigo, starred with the hard dry points of diamond stars. Robin gained both feet and wakefulness in a single lunge, struggling up out of a nest of warm safety, her hands thrown out like white birds as if to stave off a blow. The oak tree quieted, its branches shivering with unease or just a warm liquid wind full of the promise of rain.
The simmering smell of minty crushed grass, almost as fragrant as Summerâs shaded hollows, rose around her in veils; her toe caught on something in the almost-dark and she stood for a moment, teetering on the edge of a fall, before the lightfoot and quickstep chantments in the heels woke, righting her with the help of her natural sense of balance. Her hair didnât swing heavily, her head curiously naked, and she ran her fingers back over the ragged, chopped mass before she remembered cutting it in the carnival trailer while her nameless hostess slept.
They had dragged her from the seaâs embrace, and been burned by the Unseelie for their pains. Just another instance of sidhe spreading death and destruction, the poison of a Half caught between two realms and at home in neither. Robin
Jenny you biiiiitch, you biiiiitch!
â
Does he think my name is Jenny?
Crenn shook his head, his hair swaying. It didnât matter. Nor did whatever crime heâd committed inside the dark cave. What mattered was finding Robin.
And yet⦠was there anyone alive in that slumping, glittering, tired old shack? Someone who could perhaps use aid? The blood on the mortal was fresh, and not all of it was his.
Crenn hesitated as the mortal moaned and thrashed even more. He had to find Robin.
What would Gallow do? He was the one her gaze followed, the one Robin flung herself into danger for. If Crenn wished toâ¦
He swore softly, a vicious curse in the Old Language that tore another chunk from the mess of splinters and moaning mortal that was the porch. One of the posts had pierced the mortalâs back, jetting from the front of his belly, slick with blood and a battlefield stench of ordure.
Nothing stank quite like human bowels, not even in the rotting recesses of Marrowdowne.
Crenn leapt lightly, balancing on a broken spar. Underneath him, the skinny mortal moaned for Jenny afresh. Bile touched the back of Crennâs throat as he tore the screen door off its hingesâthe damn thing was a nuisance. He plunged into the darkness beyond.
A few moments ticked by, full of the whisper of wind on dead, blasted grass and throbbing green blackberry vines. The mortal in the ruins of the porch twitched, coughed up bright blood, and the knife dropped from his paw. He exhaled, a long final rattle, and had ceased to move by the time Crenn, pale under his dark hair, rocketed out of the stinking abattoir inside. A few paces away from the shattered porch Crenn leaned over, in the hot sunshine, and retched. Nothing came outâhis stomach would not give up its cargo so easilyâbut still.
The wind, now heavier, stroked his hair and leathers, touched his fouled boots. It carried distant sirens drawing nearerâsome of the stealthy movements in the other tin rectangles were watching, perhaps.
Alastair Crenn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shook his head. His hair swayed, the last bits of dried moss crackling and crumbling green, and he stamped his boots, chantment flickering. The stains were easy enough to shed, and after he did so he ran along the side of the house, following the tugging along his nerves and muscles, leading him onward.
Even Gallow wouldnât have been able to help them,
he thought, and suppressed another flare of nausea.
Whoever Jenny was, he hoped she wouldnât return.
ROBINâS ROAD
11
D usk fell in sheaves of indigo, starred with the hard dry points of diamond stars. Robin gained both feet and wakefulness in a single lunge, struggling up out of a nest of warm safety, her hands thrown out like white birds as if to stave off a blow. The oak tree quieted, its branches shivering with unease or just a warm liquid wind full of the promise of rain.
The simmering smell of minty crushed grass, almost as fragrant as Summerâs shaded hollows, rose around her in veils; her toe caught on something in the almost-dark and she stood for a moment, teetering on the edge of a fall, before the lightfoot and quickstep chantments in the heels woke, righting her with the help of her natural sense of balance. Her hair didnât swing heavily, her head curiously naked, and she ran her fingers back over the ragged, chopped mass before she remembered cutting it in the carnival trailer while her nameless hostess slept.
They had dragged her from the seaâs embrace, and been burned by the Unseelie for their pains. Just another instance of sidhe spreading death and destruction, the poison of a Half caught between two realms and at home in neither. Robin
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