Hart and Hunter

Chapter 21

Ch.21: Julian

A tangled curtain of dark hair, a pale face, and the cold press of metal against my throat tell me who I'm dealing with. I lay absolutely still as Rhiannnon leans over me, the tip of her nose almost touching mine, and studies me with an intensity of expression as immobilizing as the threat of her blade. She seems especially fascinated with my eyes, and traces the curve of my brows with the fingers of her free hand.

"Rhiannon," I whisper, hoping she'll respond to her name.

She draws back in surprise, and I hold my breath as the pressure on my windpipe increases, making me wonder if I'm about to join what I hope is the small number of people ever murdered by their own grandmother. After a moment, she relaxes and the press of the blade vanishes. She raises a finger to her lips, and I nod in agreement, thinking that she wants me to be quiet.

She leans closer again and stares into my eyes, then slowly points to her own, then back to mine. Tracing the rest of my features with her fingertips, her brows pinch close and she shakes her head.

Guessing the source of her confusion, I dare another whisper.

"I'm not David," I breathe. "I know I look like him. He was my father. I'm Julian. I'm... the son of your son," I add, remembering the way the Fae refer to relatives.

She tilts her head a little to the side, and I wonder if she understands. Then, slowly, she withdraws the knife, which I see is the same type of short, curved blade that struck Halloran, and slips it back into a small sheath on her belt. As she does this, I take in the rest of her appearance and note its strangeness.

The belt looks like something from a video game or a Renaissance fair, so I'm guessing it's Fae-made, but the rest of her clothes look like they belong to a tourist with bad taste.

She wears a pink sweatshirt a size too large for her that reads "I ♥️ Spring Lakes," and a pair of sweatpants in the colors of the local college sports teams: blue with a yellow stripe down the side. After a moment, I realize that I've seen both garments before—in the 'gift' area of the hardware store. Rhiannon must have clothed herself with stolen items from the various burgled shops.

As this dawns on me, I realize I have the perfect opportunity to solve our entire mystery right here.

Excitement shoots through me with a second rush of adrenaline, and I lift myself on my elbows a little as questions flood my brain.

"So, you are the thief," I whisper. "You're hunting the skin-changer, right? Do you know who it is? Did you follow it here? How did you escape the Shadowlands? What happened to—"

Eyes widening with alarm, she leans forward and covers my mouth with her hand, shaking her head and making her long black hair swish.

Emboldened by the fact she hasn't killed me yet, I push her hand away.

"It's okay," I say, in a low but audible voice. "There's no one else here. We can talk. Please—I just want to understand."

She stares at me a moment, her bright purple eyes a mirror of my own, and then—thankfully—she backs away, climbs off me, and allows me to sit up.

Stuck by a thought, I hold up my hand. "Hang on—I have something to show you."

Leaning over, I open the drawer of the bedside table and pull out my dad's book—her book, really. When I turn back, I find her watching me warily, one hand on the hilt of her knife.

"It's okay," I say gently. "Look."

I hold the book towards her and, cautiously, she takes it.

"That's yours, right? My dad left it for me."