Page 187 of A Sanctuary from Shadow
Firstly, Pete graced the clothier’s shop, and Mistress Petunia was more than tickled to welcome both he and Sionna. She helped Pete choose sensible—and fashionable, she asserted—Summer Court garb for Shorty and gave him the lighter weight jerkin he wanted for half price. Before he left, she offered him something not commonly in her inventory, and Pete, once again, feigned that he was too in a rush to enjoy the receipt of that particular luxury.
Secondly, Pete visited the tackle supply shop. He was low on hooks, and his stock of silk line needed replenishment as well. Wooly, the hirsute house-fae, handed Pete a basket of artful lures to peruse, then led Sionna into his smokehouse for a bite of dried fish.
While admiring the craftsmanship of the lures he couldn’t afford to buy just then, a new aroma upended his felicity. That aroma—bitter myrrh. Pete knew of only several fae who smelled of that biblical spice—remembered their detestable scent well. He’d once shared a barracks with them.
Prowess flaring, Pete cursed Wooly. How much mackerel was he feeding Sionna? He whistled for her, and she emerged—when she was good and ready. Huffing at her pretty black and tan face, Pete laid payment on the counter. “That’ll be all for me, Wooly.”
Unfortunately, Wooly was as meticulous as ever in packaging Pete’s goods, and by the time the fellow had finished to his satisfaction, the scent of myrrh had overwhelmed the fug of glow-grouper and sea-dragon roe.
Outwardly equable, though braced for a skirmish, Pete turned to face a fellow harbinger he’d been at odds with since they were both cage fighters.
“McKenna!” Dando’s friendly rasp (a parody of his own fine Irish brogue) greeted him—the way Judas must’ve greeted Jesus that night in Gethsemane. “How you be, old boy?”
Battling a sneer, Pete leveled the ginger Leprechaun with a mild expression. “I’m well, Dando. And you?”
Eyes slitting as he grinned, Dando revealed a set of pointed teeth. He shifted toward the shop counter, resting a scarred arm upon it in a way that made his bicep bulge from his much too snug sleeve. Dando wore typical Lithalaly hunting togs, complete with jagged collar and knee-length trousers. His orange hair, unkempt and tufted, curled around the brim of a crimson tricorn hat. A hat topping a big, round head that reached just to Pete’s stern mouth.
“I’m jolly good, McKenna. Jolly good.” Dando’s features hardened. He sized up Pete like they were meeting in the ring again. Neither of them had ever been able to kill the other, though they’d both tried their damndest. As Gentian hated stalemates, this had always irritated him. And Pete and Dando. “Been looking for you.”
As Sionna skittered behind Pete’s legs, he assessed his situation. Though Dando made Pete long for the reek of fish, the Leprechaun’s stench was singular. So, his entourage wasn’t with him, though they no doubt prowled near enough to join a fracas should one arise. And while Dando’s sudden presence bothered him, Pete found no malice in the ruffian’s demeanor.
Waiting for Dando to tip his hand, Pete loosened his stance. “Why ever for?”
Dando’s laughter was often artificial—this time, no different. He massaged Pete’s shoulder in a condescension that made Pete want to break his wrist. “Such a hawkish look from you. Now, now, Pete, settle yourself. I’m not here for your zephyrist. Or, not anymore.”
Strange that he should reveal his intentions so openly,Pete mused.What game is he about?“Aren’t you?”
“Not after the news of this splendid,splendidmorn.”
Pete glanced Wooly’s way. The shopkeep looked inordinately busy for one with just two customers. Avoiding the Leprechaun, he was.Wise,Pete judged.
“What news?” Pete asked, not giving a fig. He just wanted Dando to make his fecking point. He always had one.
Dando’s eyes—the color of tortoise shells—rounded. “You haven’t heard? Oh my, Pete, you’ll be happy as Larry to hear it. Though it boggles me you’ve dodged the news ‘til now, what with the broadsheets nailed about town.”
“I’ve no mind for ballyhoo, Dando.”
Likely, the broadsheet Dando referenced vilified some class of Unseelie fae, perhaps spewing lies of a village slaughtered by Vampires. The last story was falsified; Gentian himself had sent his cadre to decimate that Middling hamlet, sending out broadsheets blaming the Vamps afterward.
Pete sniffed. “If this news comes from the Shadow Court, you’d do well to question it.”
“That’s the best part.” Dando looked like he wanted to dance theCeili. “This news comes from the Spring Palace.”
Pete stilled, chewing that tidbit. “The crown has made no formal proclamations in years.” He wouldn’t foster hope that their incompetent sovereign had declared war against Gentian. Finally.
“Aye, well, they were obliged to make one now.” Dando’s bushy eyebrows wiggled. “King Laurustinus—he’s dead.”
Pete’s heart stopped. Memories he’d tried to bury long ago writhed upward, phantoms in the darkest pits of his mind. “The king is dead?” he restated, fists clenched.
“Indeed. That blood curse finally claimed him.” Smug as a cat with cream, Dando produced a creased parchment from his pocket, smacked it on the shop counter. On it was the image of a Danann beyn with sharp, ethereal features and long, flowing hair. “And his daughter—untraditional heir that she be—is missing.”
Now, Pete’s heart leapt. Fleeing the devil. Because the image looked strikingly similar—
It can’t be—
Certain features were all wrong if it depicted Shorty. She was much more beautiful with a thick forelock the image lacked. Besides, Shorty had mud brown hair. The princess had copper hair, something he knew without the broadsheet’s description.
Dando fingered the gilded calligraphy, reading, “Handsome reward for Princess Amaranthine. Last seen a week past Beltane at the Thorny Rose Tavern.”
