Part 39 (2/2)

Do not listen! She is evil.

Ulrich ignored his conscience, which sounded much like Gossamyr of Glamoursiege-daughter of his cruel tormentor-and sought out the origin of the compelling song.

He was not blinded fully and kept a wall on his right side, gliding his palm across the plastered limestone to support, for his lack of vision caused him to waver and stumble. Cold, the area surrounding his eyeball. Blinking at the br.i.m.m.i.n.g moisture that pooled in his blinded eye, he shook his head to fling away the wet, then proceeded onward.

The sonorous song filling his ears led him down a narrow pa.s.sage darkened by buildings, four levels stacked one upon the other. Ulrich homed in on the music, succ.u.mbing to the heady surrender to ecstasy. She awaited him. A lover. Her kisses promised pa.s.sion. It had been so long since he had known such. Twenty years. Or merely a week. He did not know anymore.

Sliding a finger under his right eye, he wiped away the stinging moisture.

The hunger for love grew. Already he could verily taste her, slipping across his tongue, gliding like fine wine down his throat and easing the ache in his belly.

Around the corner he spied a black lacquered carriage parked outside a manor stable. Not yet set out on journey, he suspected, for a coachman did not sit upon the driver's high perch.

Ulrich pushed aside the iron gate and walked up the crushed-sh.e.l.l path to the stable. His leather soles crunched the pearlescent shards in squeaking outbursts. If he kept his arms splayed and hands flattened, such did not tax his balance.

Drops of the stinging liquid running from his eye slipped into his mouth. Tasteless, unlike tears. Would he cry a saltless river from this day forth? d.a.m.n the Faery lord, Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III would not for one moment longer aid his daughter's quest. A mere mortal woman who could no more attract a unicorn than she could fly?

All for Ulrich now. He must focus on his wants.

A lava of pale velvet skirts spilled out of the dark-bodied carriage. The elegant twist of a feminine hand, gloved in softest gray kid, beckoned him forward. Alabaster and clouds and fresh clean eggsh.e.l.l, those were the colors of her gown. Yet- he could not see flesh. Or even a face. 'Twas the costume but no body!

The glove reached for his face. The touch of her, so delicate, s.h.i.+mmered through Ulrich's being, startling him madly. Like a bang to an elbow that vibrates shock waves, but this touch pleasured with its lightning path of pain. Pulling away, she held her finger between them, coated with the saltless tears that glimmered with the sheen of Faery. s.h.i.+nn's trail? The finger moved in a fanning motion before what should have been her face- mon Dieu, but the wake of her movement showed red eyes and nose and smirking red lips! Wherever his tears touched revealed that part of the faery he could not see. She pushed the finger into her mouth and closed her eyes. Jubilation.

Strange as the vision was, to stand before him, partly seen, her costume draped in places where he should see flesh, Ulrich could not deny her beauty.

Banished for loving the cruel Faery lord? He reached to touch the blossom of vibrant red mouth that curled into a smile. His movement dislodged the leather saddlebag from his shoulder. Oblivious to the contents that spilled at his feet, Ulrich held out his hand, pleading for one touch of the delicious skin-so exquisitely pale-and to trace the dotted marking. To recompense for love lost.

Suddenly her crimson eyes widened and she drew in a hissing breath.

Ulrich looked down the sh.e.l.l path to where his seducer's eyes focused. Tilting his head, he spied what held her fascination. The alicorn lay unbound from its wrapping.

TWENTY-FIVE.

Gossamyr strode toward the city walls where she knew Ulrich's uncle lived, her heels barely touching the cobbles. The wound on her knee stung. It was a struggle not to limp, but yet the air lightened her steps. An ever-flowing stream of her mortal tears for a bit of glamour right now- though the tears be valuable only to the fee. Anything to make her less vulnerable. She should have remained in the Red Lady's lair, waiting to end it, to take her out.

Had it been fear for Ulrich that had hastened her away from the marble-lined walls? Nay, fear for herself.

Blight, that was it. She was afraid.

The realization stalled Gossamyr in her tracks. Fear? Ulrich would be most pleased. She pressed her knuckles, half staff in hand, to the stone wall at her right. Heavy breaths huffed from her lungs.

You are not fee. Not even half-blooded!

Believe and you Belong.

Shaking her head, Gossamyr struggled with voices crying out from her past and the future that beckoned with a strange crook of its bony finger.

Believe? In what? And where to belong?

This mortal world-no, she was not fascinated by it-horrified her. It offered nothing but filth and depravity and war. The people were not friendly; they did not look at her with smiles but downturned faces. They did not care about Gossamyr, daughter of s.h.i.+nn. They struggled to survive.

As would she. She could not believe in this mortal realm. But no longer could she believe in Faery. Or the idea that Faery was her home.

When you stop believing you cease to belong.

”I want to return,” she whispered. ”I do believe. I will always believe.”

But she could not return should the alicorn be restored to the unicorn. Could she stop Ulrich from seeking his wish? Had she any right to keep him from summoning his daughter from death?

So important, family. Hers had suddenly been yanked away. Not even a real family. Yet, according to s.h.i.+nn, Gossamyr had family she had not even known.

The d'Anges were murdered.

Verity d'Ange. Such a peculiar name. But it intrigued in that it belonged to Gossamyr. Her birth name. Verity-a secret name that had always been hers.

No!

She could not belong to a family that no longer existed. But there remained a sister-this unknown sister might be all Gossamyr had now. Might she ever hope to find her? For s.h.i.+nn's betrayal had cleaved Gossamyr from Faery.

You love him despite his cruelties. He is all you have ever known.

They did love one another, had grown closer following the departure of Veridienne. Gossamyr had learned to love-the faery way. A surface emotion that never truly rooted. Or had it? She was not capable of hating s.h.i.+nn. Love, the mortal pa.s.sion. ”It has always been mine.”

She thought now of the decimated castle she had explored. How might her life have been had she grown up on the d'Ange demesne? Would she have romped through the meadows with a sister? Were there other siblings? So much to wonder about.

”I want to know them.” The words slipped from Gossamyr's mouth without volition. She wandered forward, not really seeing, her mind stuffed with noise from the past.

”Always mortal?” She tripped, but braced herself, both hands to each end of her staff against a pole fleched with torn public announcements.

To her left the careful clops of horse hooves neared. Measured, almost as if the beast was...looking. Timing its steps. A ma.s.sive animal, for the echoes filled the air with a march worthy of a gallant parade.

Gossamyr straightened, listening. The back of her neck prinkled, akin to fear, but more so, antic.i.p.ation.

A force approached. Be it good or evil? Armagnac, Burgundian, or English? Either would taste her skill with an arret to the skull.

Abandoning foolish wonders about her stolen past, Gossamyr slid her hand down the silk bodice of her gown and unhooked an arret. She began to spin it for release-but immediately relinquished her defensive stance at sight of the brilliant white horse that advanced. No, not a horse. The beast verily gleamed in the clouded twilight, its snow-white hide casting about it an aura of illumination.

A rider sat upon its back but Gossamyr could not drag her attention from the beast. She held out a hand, thinking to touch its pale pink nose. Long witch locks, elegantly braided with fine strands of silver threading, hung between the animal's violet eyes.

And there, between the plaits of mane and above the eyes s.h.i.+mmered an ovular spot, the hide bare of hair and looking pink and open. Like a wound, but not seeping.

Sucking in a gasp, Gossamyr recoiled. Realization felled her to her knees before the magnificent beast. Bowing, she pressed her forehead to the cold dirty cobbles.

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