The Borderkind

CHAPTER 11

O liver ought to have been fascinated by the castle of Otranto. Every archway and window drew the eye. On many walls there hung elaborate tapestries that would have made him catch his breath in admiration on another day. When guards came to fetch them from the rooms where they had been brought to wash and rest, they were marched past massive double doors that opened into a vast library at least two stories high. He could not see far enough into the room to determine if it rose even higher. In an alcove in the corridor that led to King Hunyadi’s presentation room, there were two glass cases in which illuminated manuscripts were on display.

But none of this provided more than a passing moment’s distraction. Exhaustion had wormed its way into Oliver’s bones. Until now, desperation and adrenaline had conspired to keep him going, but as he and Kitsune were brought before the king, he felt only tired and resigned.

His fate was at hand. He had done all that he could to influence it, but what happened next was no longer in his control. If it ever had been.

They were not bound, nor were they prodded with weapons as they were escorted to the Presentation Room, but there was no doubt they were prisoners. The guards seared them with hate-filled eyes and Oliver fought the temptation to challenge their bitterness. After all, any of the king’s men who had been slain on the road or within the castle walls today had been victims of their own belligerence. Oliver and Kitsune had been protecting their own lives. But he was not fool enough to speak such thoughts aloud.

He had been allowed to keep the Sword of Hunyadi-an exceedingly generous gesture on the part of the king, he thought-but he had no illusions that it would save his life.

Whatever his expectations had been, the Presentation Room defied them. It was an enormous chamber in some far-flung corner of the castle that must, from the outside, have seemed a strange peninsula thrust out from the main structure. Within, it resembled nothing so much as a narrow church, with airy, vaulted ceilings, and towering, stained glass windows on three sides. Their full glory could not be appreciated after dark, with the moonlight casting a dull glow upon them from without and row upon row of candles spreading light within. There were wall sconces and oil lamps as well, but the candles were the primary light source and they cast a warm, golden brilliance throughout the chamber.

The ocean-myth motif of the mosaic around the main doors of the castle was carried through to the Presentation Room. Other mosaics had been created between each window, and the stained glass imagery also illustrated the legends of the sea. There were mermaids and selkies, monstrous kraken, and other creatures he did not immediately recognize.

At the far end of the room, a single enormous chair sat upon a platform. Fish and serpents and tentacles had been carved into the mahogany arms and legs and back of the chair, and above it three vast stained glass windows had been placed to create a triptych of the sea god, Poseidon. Upon Poseidon’s head sat a golden crown whose arched points rose in the shape of waves.

King Hunyadi sat upon his chair-what passed for a throne in this room-and wore the very same crown. The Crown of Poseidon. Dozens of other people filled the room, gathered on either side of a long blue carpet that bisected the stone floor, but in the king’s presence they seemed invisible. There were armored guards and robed attendants, and nearest the king there were several servants in blue and green, obviously awaiting his instructions.

To the left of the king sat Hy’Bor, the Atlantean, his primary advisor. Despite the arrow that he had plucked from his chest at dusk, the sorcerer seemed in perfect health. He was pale, but that was apparently typical of his kind. He watched Oliver and Kitsune with his lips pressed tightly together and his eyes full of malevolence.

As they strode toward the platform with its high chair, Oliver heard Kitsune growl low in her throat. Nervous, he shot her a sidelong glance, wondering if she had finally snapped. Any threat to the king now and he was sure they would be executed on the spot. Perhaps right there on the three steps that led up to the platform. For that very reason, he had kept his hands clasped behind him as he walked, making certain that no one could claim he made a grab for the sword that hung in its scabbard at his side.

But Kitsune’s attention was not on the king at all. She sniffed the air and peered off to the right, toward a cluster of people Oliver presumed had gathered to plead for the king’s aid or intercession on some matter or another.

“Stop,” Oliver whispered.

The fox-woman glared at him, her eyes slits and one corner of her mouth lifted to reveal tiny, animal teeth. Oliver flinched at the ferocity of that glance.

“We have enemies here,” she rasped, voice so low that even he could barely hear.

The sergeant whose hand Oliver had broken stood just ahead to one side of the carpet. The man’s wrist was splinted and bandaged but he still seemed formidable. He frowned as he watched them whispering to one another, then raised his other hand.

“Silence,” said one of the guards behind them, and Oliver tensed, believing he was about to be struck. No blow came, however, and by then it was too late for him to respond to Kitsune, for they had crossed the length of the Presentation Room.

“Your Highness, as requested, the Intruder, Oliver Bascombe, and Kitsune of the Borderkind,” the sergeant announced in a loud, formal voice. He bowed his head and backed away from the carpet.

King Hunyadi studied them a moment. With his crown and silver-blue robe, he looked every inch the monarch. His blue eyes were clear and intelligent and regarded those before him as a scientist does his experiments. Yet there was still much of the fisherman in his bearing, in his broad shoulders, and in his genial, warm features.

Beside him, the Atlantean glanced out at the gathered petitioners.

Kitsune shifted from one foot to another beside Oliver, but it was not the scrutiny of the king that made her skittish. She also glanced back at the cluster of petitioners. Her hood was back, but she drew the fur cloak around her tightly as though the temptation to transform was almost more than she could bear.

“These are strange and difficult times,” King Hunyadi said. He spoke loudly enough for all to hear, but all of his attention was focused on the Intruder and the Borderkind who had gained entrance into his summer residence.

“Tell me your story, Oliver,” said the king. “Beginning to end.”

All was silent in the room. The king had spoken.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Oliver replied. A ripple of unease went through him, but he chalked it up to the weight of Hunyadi’s attention. “It begins with a conspiracy, I think, but that will become obvious. And anyway, that’s not how it started for me. There was a blizzard, you see, on the night before I was supposed to be married-”

In the end, it took far less time to tell the tale than Oliver would have imagined. Living it had given the events texture and substance that could not be easily expressed. Yet though the story was told in twenty or thirty minutes, its significance was not lost on the king. Hunyadi attended with great interest, nodding several times as though suspicions had been confirmed. His expression grew grimmer with each new twist of the tale.

When Oliver had finished, King Hunyadi took a deep breath and stroked his beard. He looked pointedly at Hy’Bor. Oliver had debated whether or not to reveal that Ty’Lis, another Atlantean sorcerer, had been named as the man behind the Myth Hunters, worried that he might be endangering Frost, Blue Jay, and the others by doing so. Yet, in the end, he felt he had to disclose all he knew.

Hy’Bor did not raise any challenge to his claims, but he maintained an expression of aloof disbelief that Oliver supposed was comment enough.

Even so, the way Hunyadi looked at his advisor told Oliver the king would be having a very interesting conversation with Hy’Bor later.

Oliver had also felt reluctant to reveal Collette’s abduction and his belief that she was a captive of the Sandman. Their visit to Twillig’s Gorge had proven that there could be spies anywhere-and with Hy’Bor standing on the platform beside the throne, he had no doubt that was the case at Otranto, too. But he had no choice. If the king allowed him to live, Collette would still be condemned as an Intruder. He had to make the appeal for both of them.

Hunyadi sniffed in apparent disapproval and turned his focus upon Kitsune. “You are Borderkind. You did not have to remain here. Hy’Bor would have used magic to restrain you, but I instructed that you be left alone. At any moment you might have slipped through the Veil and escaped whatever fate awaits you here. Why did you stay?”

The fox-woman raised her chin defiantly, her black, silken hair radiant in the glow of a thousand candles. “I vowed to help Oliver to reach the monarchs of the Two Kingdoms, to ask your indulgence and mercy. If he survives, he has pledged to aid the Borderkind in uncovering the truth of the murderous conspiracy against us. He is my friend and companion. I would not leave him.”

The king nodded slowly, then turned to Oliver again.

“The sword,” he said.

Oliver instinctively reached for the blade and its scabbard, intending to remove it and return it to its rightful owner.

“Guards!” Hy’Bor barked.

“No!” Hunyadi snapped, holding up a hand. He shot an angry glance at his advisor, then turned a gentler expression upon Oliver. “If David Koenig believed you worthy to bear that weapon, I will not dispute it. You may keep the sword, Mr. Bascombe. However, there are laws in the Two Kingdoms, and by now you are well familiar with those concerning Intruders. They are dangerous to our way of life. You and your sister, sir, are dangerous to us.

“You are also correct that Intruders may, in certain circumstances, be given clemency. This may only happen with a joint order by the monarchs of both kingdoms. To that end, I grant you the same boon that I granted to the wise Professor Koenig. One year, Mr. Bascombe, in which you and your sister must prove yourselves worthy of the trust of the Two Kingdoms. If my friend the king of Yucatazca allows you the same boon, at the end of that year we will determine together if the two of you will be allowed to live. Otherwise, a new death warrant will be sworn out for both of you.

“I must also caution you that should the king of Yucatazca not grant you this boon, the warrant for your death in Euphrasia will be reinstated. Of course, at that point it will hardly matter, as you will likely already have been executed.”

Hunyadi grinned broadly, morbidly amused.

Oliver stared at him, a smile blossoming slowly on his own face. It took a moment for the words to truly sink in. There were still enormous obstacles to overcome, of course. Another king to persuade. Not to mention the search for some deed that would prove his trustworthiness and make this mercy permanent. But it was a beginning. For the moment, he was still alive.

Beside the king, Hy’Bor scowled.

The Atlantean raised a hand, pointed a finger at the gathered petitioners. “This will not do. Kill them.”

Kitsune spun, snarling. She whipped up her hood, the copper-red fur obscuring her face. Then she dropped into a crouch and diminished instantly into the fox.

Hunyadi shouted to his guards as he stood, and he reached out for his advisor. The king produced a short sword from within the folds of his robe. Hy’Bor was a sorcerer; sickly yellow light began to glimmer all over him, to gleam in his eyes and crackle around his hands.

The Atlantean lunged at his king.

Oliver saw no more. He twisted around at the sound of a mighty roar that erupted from amongst the petitioners. Two massive figures stood and threw off brown, hooded, monastic robes to reveal themselves. They were lumbering, slavering things, wild boars that walked on two legs, tusks jutting up from their lower jaws, jaundice-yellow eyes glaring with homicidal frenzy.

“What the hell are they?” Oliver shouted as the other petitioners screamed and began to scatter.

Kitsune had become the fox by instinct. But now she changed again, regaining her human aspect, standing beside him.

“Battle Swine,” she said flatly. “Stupid, but fierce.”

“Wonderful.”

Guards with swords drawn shoved people out of the way, working their way toward the Battle Swine, but the Hunters were already moving. One of them gored the first guard to reach him, tusks puncturing leather armor easily. He tossed the soldier aside, blood staining ivory.

Oliver drew his sword.

Kitsune grabbed his wrist. “No. You achieved what you came for. There’s no point in staying.”

Her grip on him firm, she waved her free hand in the air and it began to shimmer, just beside her, a slit in the Veil appearing. Kitsune stepped through, pulling Oliver after her. The Battle Swine were shrieking, snorting, and hacking at innocents and guards alike as they rushed to fulfill their orders. They were close enough that Oliver wrinkled his nose at the stench, perhaps ten feet away. One of the Swine plunged his own sword into a guard that put himself between it and Oliver, and blood sprayed from the wound, spattering Oliver’s boots.

Kitsune hauled him through.

In the last moment, Oliver glanced up at the throne. King Hunyadi had driven his short blade into Hy’Bor. The magic that animated the Atlantean had been snuffed like a candle flame. Behind Hy’Bor was an eight-foot, hideously ugly troll. Where he’d come from, Oliver had no idea, but it made him realize that Hunyadi had suspected Hy’Bor’s treachery and had been prepared.

The troll had crushed Hy’Bor’s skull between his hands. Oliver suspected it was not the king’s blade that had ended the traitor’s life.

Hunyadi glanced at Oliver and gave a small nod as if to spur him on. Then Kitsune and Oliver were gone from the Presentation Room, from Otranto, and from the world of the legendary.

For just a moment, he felt the membrane of the Veil, or at least the pressure of it around him. The substance of reality warped and his eyes could not process what they were seeing. He squeezed them closed, staggered, and as he fell forward he felt a gust of frigid wind.

Oliver dropped to his knees on frozen ground covered by a thin crust of snow. He shivered with the cold and opened his eyes. The shift of location, of reality, had become almost familiar, but this was something different. They were in the mountains somewhere in Europe, above a lake that seemed quite similar to the one at Otranto, down in the valley below. But the lake was frozen and snow covered the mountaintops. The sky was a lustrous blue, perfect and clean. It was afternoon and the sunlight gleamed on the pure white snow.

“I’m not certain where we are,” Kitsune said, walking several paces in the general direction of the lake.

Oliver laughed. “I don’t care. I really don’t. We’re home. In my world. For the next few minutes, I’m just going to…”

He could not even finish the thought. This was a brief respite, he knew. Collette needed him. The Sandman held her life in his hands. Wherever this was, Switzerland or Germany, he figured, but wherever, they couldn’t stay. But for just a moment, he had to relish it. Hunyadi had granted his boon, spared him and Collette for now. The conspiracy beyond the Veil had begun to unravel with the revelation of Hy’Bor’s treachery. They’d escaped the Battle Swine.

“Pigs,” he whispered to himself, and he chuckled, shaking his head. “Fucking pigs.”

Then he sobered. Grimly he rose and strode after Kitsune. She turned to glance at him, then returned her attention to the frozen lake below.

“We have to go to England. All the way back to England, from wherever here is,” he said. The Dustman could only be encountered in an English nursery, and the knowledge was heavy upon his heart. “It’s the wrong direction, Kit. I know there’s nothing we can do without his help. But for Christ’s sake, it’s the wrong direction.”

Kitsune turned to him. With a mischievous grin, she reached up and touched the tip of his nose.

“I have an idea.”

The night sky caressed Blue Jay as he rode the wind higher. Dark as it was, the moon was bright enough that he could see his companions emerging from a dense forest onto a hillside. A valley lay below and they descended the hill without hesitation, headed southwest. The icy edges of Frost’s profile gleamed and sparkled in the moonlight, and the others followed. His injuries had been nearly healed within minutes of their return to Perinthia, and now, hours later, there was no sign that he had ever been wounded.

Frost had been right. Crossing back through the Veil from the Akrai had put them in the midst of the Latin Quarter of Perinthia again. They had been spread out, so that it took precious seconds for them all to gather again in the ruins of the Greek and Roman city. Strigae perched on the peaks of buildings and shattered rubble, and the black birds began to caw loudly, a shrill cry like children being stabbed. It filled the air. Legends in the Latin Quarter had pulled their shutters quickly or raced to hide in shadows.

But they were only birds.

There would be no retreat for the Hunters. Ordinary legends, they could not slip away through the Veil the way Borderkind did. They could not cross between worlds without a door.

The Strigae hadn’t stood a chance. Dusk had settled over Perinthia. Though Frost and Chorti had been injured, they were not so badly wounded that they could not trouble annoying birds. Frost impaled the nearest Strigae with a spear of ice that jutted from the palm of his hand. The others cried out and their wings beat the air as they tried to flee.

Blue Jay had slain two of them himself. Grin had climbed an old palazzo with three quick bounds and grabbed hold of a Strigae, then snapped its neck with a quick twist. Li burned three of them right out of the air with gouts of flame that spewed from his throat, breathing fire like a dragon. The tiger had broken one in its jaws. Two or three of the Strigae had escaped, but Blue Jay had pursued them for a mile to be sure they would not follow, and as he suspected, they had not even slowed in their flight of terror.

As the evening deepened, the darkness gathering its cloak around Perinthia, Cheval Bayard had slain the sentries at two of the watchtowers on the edge of the city. They had left Perinthia without raising an alarm on the northern end, but by the time the dead sentries were discovered, they would already have circled around and started southwest, away from the city.

As a bird, Blue Jay had flown far above them throughout the journey, circling, watchful for any threat or pursuit. They had given a wide berth to the village of Bromfield. There would be no help from the Lost Ones who lived there, and certainly not from any of the legendary. They could expect little help wherever they went, but Frost and Oliver and Kitsune had stopped in Bromfield on their way to Perinthia and doubtless there would be spies in the village on the watch for Borderkind.

No one could be trusted.

As a trickster, he understood that, but Blue Jay wondered if the others truly did.

Once past Bromfield, the motley collection of Borderkind had traveled briefly on the Truce Road, where the going was far smoother. But as the night deepened and the creatures of darkness roamed across the land, there would be too much risk of an unpleasant encounter. Also, by then, Frost and Blue Jay had been certain the Myth Hunters would have made it back through some Door in the Veil. It would likely be many hours before any of those searching for them could catch up, but it was better not to take chances.

So they had struck out from the road, journeying first through farmland and then up into the hills and then deep in the Cardiff Forest. Blue Jay lost sight of them for much of their trek through the woods but he continued to circle and to travel southwest. He had seen night birds flying-several owls, but no Perytons and no Strigae. On the road there had been private carriages, but this far from any frequented path, only the wild legends were about. Goblins and sprites and the occasional giant might live in the forest, but they would not have anything to do with the conspiracy against the Borderkind.

Even so, the moment he saw them emerge from the forest and start down the grassy hill into the valley, Blue Jay felt a wave of relief sweep over him. He could easily make out the shambling form of Chorti. Cheval Bayard drifted along beside him, ghostly in her translucent gown, silver hair picking up the shine of the moon. Chorti’s wounds would heal, but she doted on the monster in the meantime.

The tiger stalked along behind them with Li upon his back. A gray specter followed: the single surviving Mazikeen. He moved as though floating just above the ground, never hurrying, never lagging behind. Blue Jay was unnerved in the presence of the sorcerers. He understood magic-hell, he was magic-but warping sorcery was something different entirely.

Last came Leicester Grindylow, who moved not at all like the ape Blue Jay considered him. He forgot that Grin was a water bogie and quite agile. The boggart never stayed precisely at the end of the line. He moved from side to side, swiftly and quietly, watching their backs.

Any doubts Blue Jay might have had about Grin’s loyalty had dissipated. The boggart was faithful, and smarter than he looked. In short order, he had come to trust the boggart more than any of the others, even Frost.

Once again, Blue Jay flew a circle. As he did, he thought he saw, far behind him, a single dark mark against the night sky.

The bird descended, swooping down from the dark. He passed over the trees, wings straight out, and then he was out over the grassy hillside, propelling himself after the Borderkind. When he reached Frost, he circled once around the winter man’s head and spread his wings. They became arms, and he set his feet down upon the grass. Blue Jay smoothed out his thick cotton shirt and shook his head. His long, braided, black hair fell down his back, and the feathers tied there danced in the breeze.

“Are they following, then?” Frost asked. In the moonlight, his jagged ice features looked blue.

“I’m not sure,” the trickster said. “I thought I might have seen something. But we’re far enough away now and moving closer to the Atlantic Bridge. No reason not to cross the border so that there is at least part of our trail they cannot track.”

Frost concurred.

The small group of Borderkind gathered around, there on the hillside. The Mazikeen inspected Chorti’s wounds silently and muttered a few words in his ancient tongue. The wild man grunted and actually smiled in relief, soothed by the spell.

This done, they all crossed together, that strange new family of Borderkind.

They left the long night of legend behind.

In the mundane world, dawn was on the eastern horizon. The seven Borderkind and the massive tiger stood on the shore of a broad half-frozen lake whose exposed surface rippled in the chill morning breeze. In the dawn’s light they found themselves surrounded by rolling fields and hills, with mountains in the distance.

A small town sprawled nearby, rows of white houses and shops with gray-black shingle roofs. It was a simple place, unchanged from a long ago time, and on that winter morning it was pale and faded, as though every home had its share of ghosts. The only brightness in the entire panorama was the twinkling of Christmas lights on several of the larger trees, but even that seemed halfhearted.

Cheval Bayard stepped away from them, leaving Chorti on his own. The town earned merely a glance. The lake drew her attention instead and she stepped into the water, crushing a thin shell of ice that had formed. A sensual shiver went through her and Blue Jay relished the sight. Contact with the water gave the kelpy great pleasure.

“Where are we?” Cheval asked, turning to look at Frost.

They all regarded Frost. No formal command had ever been given or taken, but he led them. Even the Mazikeen, alone now in his silence, looked to the winter man for instruction.

Frost glanced around, hesitating. He didn’t want to say it, but Blue Jay saw in his eyes that he had no idea where they were. Li ran his fingers through his tiger’s fur, the two growling softly to one another-serious and proper, they seemed two halves of a whole, complete unto themselves.

They all seemed slightly baffled, but then Grin spun around once, nodding as though to himself.

“Can’t say for sure, but if I was the sort, I’d wager we’re in Wales. Kind of gray, but pretty. Mountains. We headed off west, so, Wales. We keep going west, or south…or any direction but east, really, and we’ll hit ocean, yeah?”

The winter man held up a hand, feeling the wind. “Due west.”

And so they went, that strange parade, across thirty miles of the hills and fields of Wales, moving faster than ever they could have with Oliver or any human along for the journey. The sun had been up less than two hours when they came to a rocky coastline where the wind whipped at them and the waves crashed furiously upon the shore. Several houses were in sight, but as they approached the Irish Sea the sky had become overcast and now hung low and grim above them. All throughout their journey they had easily avoided being sighted by humans. It was not difficult in a country as quiet and desolate as this. And now, on the shore, it mattered little if they were seen by an old Welshman or some young housewife.

Who would believe them?

The waves crashed on the rocks and spattered them all with frigid sea spray. Li’s tiger kept well back from the water, growling at the raging surf. The Guardian of Fire sat astride him, watching Frost impatiently.

Cheval stood with her feet in the water, stroking the fur on the back of Chorti’s neck as he leaned into her, the largest, most ferocious pet anyone had ever had. Or so it seemed. But they all knew differently. The two shared a rare friendship that any would envy, if it had not been based on grief and loss.

The Mazikeen kept his distance, lost in his flowing robes. Blue Jay tried to catch his eye, but the sorcerer resolutely refused to meet such direct scrutiny. He stroked his beard and kept his gaze out to sea. Blue Jay wondered what created that distance the Mazikeen kept between themselves and others. What was this guy thinking?

Frost strode up beside Blue Jay. He seemed quite recovered now. “Are you ready to cross?”

“Is anyone else getting tired of this back and forth?” Blue Jay asked, looking around at the others.

Grin leaped from one large rock to the next like some reckless child, spinning toward his kin.

“Unless we’re very unlucky, this ought to be our last jaunt through the Veil for a bit, yeah? You worry too much.”

Blue Jay blinked in surprise. He was a mischief maker, a trickster. In all his ages, no one had ever accused him of worrying too much about anything. But that was the world they were living in now, wasn’t it?

Frost laughed softly and shook his head, icicle hair chiming. “Oh, yes, because we’ve been very lucky so far.”

The trickster turned to the winter man. “We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

Frost sobered, all trace of amusement gone. There was a brief pause and then he turned to the others.

“Shall we go?” he said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

And in a way, Blue Jay supposed it was. After all, what choice did they have? One by one they slipped through the Veil again and now found themselves on the eastern bank of the Atlantic River, far, far north of the main bridge. There were other bridges, of course, but they were all in agreement that crossing the river that way was a terrible idea.

Cheval and Grin swam, both of them ecstatic to be in the water, even briefly. Frost whipped up a cold wind and let it carry him away as a gust laden with sleet. Blue Jay could fly, but that left Chorti, Li, and the tiger. The Mazikeen muttered something in a low voice and gestured for the trickster to move along. Blue Jay presumed he planned some magic or another and the sorcerer’s presence unnerved him, so he spread his arms into wings and took flight.

When he landed on the opposite bank of the broad, churning river, he was the last to arrive. Somehow the Mazikeen had gotten the others there before him. The tiger seemed disoriented, snapping its jaws at the air, and Chorti’s eyes were glazed as though he was drugged. Li kept far away from the Mazikeen after that.

They set off toward the southwest, Frost once more leading the way. There was a great deal of open land between here and Yucatazca and a few small villages they would avoid, just as they would only travel on the Truce Road for the few seconds it took to cross it.

Blue Jay walked beside the silent sorcerer and studied his gray features. “You’re really freaking me out, you know that?”

The Mazikeen glanced sharply at him, eyes narrowed. “I mourn. My brothers are dead. Your kin are being slaughtered, yet you laugh and smile. Why do you not mourn?”

“Whistling in the dark, my friend. Whistling in the dark.”

The Mazikeen wore a quizzical expression but Blue Jay did not bother to explain. He picked up his pace, nodding to Li as he passed. The tiger ran its tongue over long fangs and eyed him hungrily. Li cuffed the back of its head and the tiger snapped at him but did not falter in its stride.

“I had a thought,” Blue Jay said as he caught up to Frost.

The winter man glanced back at the others. They were far enough ahead that their words would not be overheard. “Yes?”

“If we adjust our course slightly southward, it would affect our travel time only a little and put us on a path to pass right by the Sandman’s castle. The one where you and Kitsune and Oliver found all of the dead Red Caps.”

The wave of cold that emanated from Frost in that moment made Blue Jay shiver and his teeth clack together. His eyelashes felt as though ice had formed on them. Blue-white mist rose from the winter man’s eyes.

“Why would we want to do that?” Frost asked.

Anger flashed through the trickster. “Oliver’s sister is his captive, as you well know. We don’t have a way of knowing if Oliver and Kitsune have reached the eastern castle. If we have an opportunity to help and we’re so close, it seems-”

“The Sandman could have Collette Bascombe anywhere. You are correct that we have no way of knowing what has transpired since we parted company with Oliver. But we cannot delay our own efforts another moment, or risk ourselves in any other cause. Oliver and Kitsune have one objective, and the rest of us have another. Or has it not occurred to you that at this very moment, and every other minute that has passed since we set out, other Borderkind may be dying?”

“Of course it has,” Blue Jay snapped.

Frost glared at him, eyes colder than ever. “Keep your focus, Jay. We’ll travel south through the Oldwood, amongst the wild legends, all the way to Yucatazca. They may think to search for us there, but they’ll have a terrible time finding us, and no cooperation in the hunt. All that matters now is reaching Yucatazca.”

His gaze became distant, as though he watched some faraway event, or a future unfolding within his own mind.

“All that matters is my hands around Ty’Lis’s throat.”

On Christmas Eve, Sara Halliwell stood in the living room of her father’s house-the house she had grown up in-and stared out the frosted window at the snow-covered yard. Once she had made snow angels there, had learned to ride a bicycle in the street, had pushed Terry McHugh down in the driveway when he tried to kiss her.

Home.

God, how long had it been since this place felt like home? It was more the ghost of home, the specter of a bittersweet past. The oldest memories were precious to her. Christmas lights in the windows while she snuggled deep under her goose down comforter, raking leaves with her father, spraying her mother with the hose on a long summer day with Daddy watching the Red Sox game on the little TV in the kitchen.

But the more recent memories were different, just a series of awkward pauses and distant looks, of a mother and father who had forgotten how to talk to one another, and consequently, to their daughter. By the time Sara came out to her parents, the fact that she was in love with another girl was barely a blip on the radar of their estrangement. It couldn’t have improved things, but she didn’t think it had made them any worse.

Living in Atlanta, away from them both, had been wonderful at first. Sara had found her mother much easier to get along with from a distance. But her father was another story entirely. How could she have imagined that it was possible for this man-this cop, so completely defined by his occupation and stolen away from his family by the job-to become more distant? Yet he had.

That’s right, she told herself. Keep blaming Daddy. Distance is the space between two people, but it only takes one to reach out and close it.

Sara sighed, breathed in, and her heart was seized by grief and loneliness unlike anything she had ever felt. The place smelled of him, of all the times he hugged her when he’d come home from work, or bent over to kiss her forehead as she lay in bed, when the job brought him home too late. The faded scent of cologne and cigars was in every curtain, in the furniture and the carpets. He did not smoke cigars anymore, except maybe for the occasional holiday, but the aroma remained. It was such a man smell, such a Daddy smell, and it was both foreign and precious to her.

How could you have let this happen? she thought, and couldn’t be sure if the admonition was directed at her father, or herself. All the time that had gone by, all of the phone calls asking her to come home, and at last she had been drawn home for Christmas when it was too late.

Out the window, she could see the gleam of Christmas lights that had been strung across the frames of neighboring houses. The old Standish house still used the multicolored ones in their trees and above the door, but where the Quinns had once lived, the new family used those bright white lights that she thought were so cheerless and sad. Still, the effect of the various decorative lights all along the street gave a holiday warmth to the scene, gleaming off the snow.

But inside Ted Halliwell’s house, there wasn’t even a tree. He hadn’t bothered with lights or decorations of any kind. Sara understood. He had asked her to come home and she had said no, so what was the point of decorating? He wouldn’t do it for himself. Someone would invite him over for Christmas dinner-Sheriff Norris, maybe-and he’d probably go, but there would be no celebration for him.

No. Stop it. Don’t you feel sorry for him. He could have been different, could have changed it anytime he set his mind to it.

But that was the tragedy. Her father had tried to change. Sara could not escape the truth now. How many times in the past few years had he reached out to her, tried to heal the past and bring them closer together, and how many times had she put him off, telling herself she wasn’t ready to forgive him yet for not being there for her?

So many.

She reached out to trace her fingers through the frosty condensation on the window. Christmas Eve existed out there in the world of Bosworth Road, but here, inside, it was so far away.

“Where are you, Dad?” she whispered to the winter night.

Somehow, she had to find out what happened to him. She could haunt Jackson Norris, but knew the sheriff wasn’t going to have any answers for her. If she wanted to know what happened, she had to go and talk to the people at Bascombe amp; Cox, who’d sent her father and Julianna Whitney to London, searching for the missing lawyer.

But it was Christmas Eve, and nobody was going to be looking for her father or even thinking about him much for the next two days. Nobody except her. The time between now and December 26 stretched out before her as an endless void. She could do nothing but wait for the rest of the world to celebrate and revel in love and holiday spirit, and that helplessness was a terrible weight upon her heart.

Sara needed to understand what had happened. Her father had always felt so far away from her, even when they lived in the same house. Yet in some strange way, she felt closer now, as though if she turned at the right moment and glanced into the corner, she would see him in the shadows. It was as though, if she reached out at the right moment, she would be able to grab him and pull him close. That was something she had not done since grade school, but now she felt like she could hug him without resentment getting in the way, if only she could find him.

Her father was still alive. She refused to believe otherwise. But it felt like his ghost haunted the house.

Sara turned away from the window and strode to the enormous bookshelf that stood against one wall. There was a CD player there and she turned it on. Christmas Eve it might be, but there’d be no holiday music for her. She pressed Play and blinked in surprise when the music started, because she recognized it immediately. Diana Krall sang “I’m an Errand Girl for Rhythm.” Sara had this CD herself. She favored cute little folk-rock boys like Jason Mraz and Jack Johnson and jazz-pop from Jamie Cullum, but there was something so beautiful and sultry about Diana Krall’s voice that Sara fell a little in love with her every time she heard her sing.

To discover that her father listened to Diana as well gave her a chill.

She opened the liquor cabinet beneath the bookcase, took out a tumbler, and poured herself a Seagram’s 7 and 7-Up. Her father had called it the “medicine cabinet.” This was his drink. Sara would have preferred it on the rocks, but did not feel like going into the kitchen for ice.

Taking a deep breath, she sipped the whiskey. It burned the back of her throat, but it warmed her nicely.

Sara closed her eyes and raised the glass, silently toasting her father and cursing the irony that it had taken his disappearance to make her feel close to him for the first time in well over ten years.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered, and took another sip of whiskey.