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It was amazing how one’s surroundings could change one’s perspective of an old ghost story. What was normally an entertaining tale whispered around a warm fire with a cup of hot tea or a roll in hand, became something else altogether when one was trapped out in a dark forest buried in a blanket of ice and snow. It became something frightening and sinister, and quite real to one’s senses, story or no.

This was how Thyme Willowbrook felt as she huddled down as far as she could in her thick woolen cloak, listening as the wind shrieked around her and the cold seeped into her bones, cursing herself yet again for having accepted that stupid dare to salvage her pride. A dare that she, at sixteen years old and nearly a grown woman, should have left to the young men, as most other girls in her village would have done.

Of course, she wasn’t like other girls in her village. Everyone knew that. She was what was termed a Tommy. She didn’t much like the term, but she supposed it was her own fault that she had been branded with it. After all, one would never catch Ariana Bowen climbing a tree like a squirrel, and Thyme’s cousin, Morgan, wouldn’t be caught dead in the breeches and tunics she preferred. She knew how to use her fists (thanks to her two older brothers who used to torment her regularly…until the first time she gave one of them a black eye), to deal out justice against those few bullies in the village, and she knew some words that could make a pirate blush, picked up from spending time in the gathering hall listening to Old Willie (who was supposedly a retired pirate himself) telling his stories of life on the high seas.

That’s where she had been today, when the whole mess had started. Sitting in the hall enjoying a cup of hot chocolate (a very rare treat). Old Willie was telling a story of the Ghost Owl to a group of children sitting around his feet, transfixed. One thing about Old Willie; when he wasn’t too drunk to talk, he was a great storyteller. This time the tale was about how a little boy in the neighboring village had mysteriously vanished into the night, and nothing left to show but a single long feather, as gray as mist, in the place he had last been seen.

What made the story extra scary was the fact that a little boy really had vanished into the night in the neighboring village, only seven days past. Nobody knew what happened. His mother had died years ago, and his father was a drunk given to vicious tempers. Most thought that he had killed the boy in a drunken rage, and had thrown the body into the half-frozen river when he sobered up and realized what he’d done. Nobody could prove it, of course, and the father swore up and down that he wasn’t even in the village when the boy had vanished. Not that it helped his case any, considering that the boy had vanished outside the village.

But, as mysteries go, what truly had happened had already been blown into a full-fledged tale of spirits and ghosts and things that couldn’t possibly be true, except in one’s nightmares. But Old Willie, who was highly superstitious, swore up and down that he had been there when the child was snatched by a huge owl as gray as mist, with fierce golden eyes that froze him like a deer in his tracks…which was why he hadn’t lifted a finger to save the poor lad. Not that he didn’t want to. He just couldn’t.

Thyme didn’t believe a word of it, of course, although some of the younger children seemed to. They sat huddled under their blankets, gazing up at Old Willie with fearful eyes, and they stayed long after Willie had left for his hut, whispering among themselves about the Ghost Owl and whether or not it was still in the forest.

That was when the trouble had started. Trouble in the form of one of the elder boys, although no older than Thyme herself, named Bronson Redfern. He was the perpetual bully, and he had the countenance to match; small, piggish eyes, thick lips that always were pulled back in a sneer, and a mop of greasy, tangled blond hair. He smelled like a pigsty, and he had no manners to speak of. He had very little in the way of intellect, but he more than made up for that lack in rotten personality. He was a liar and a thief, and all of the unattached girls avoided him like the plague. It was doubtful he would ever marry.

At the moment, he was approaching Thyme’s young sister, Maddy, who was only eight years old. Thyme saw him coming and stiffened in her seat, watching from the corner of her eye. She had known Bronson the Bull was picking on her sister, although she had never caught him at it. He was that clever, at least, to make sure she was never around when he chose his victims. Apparently he was looking for a fight tonight.

"So th’ baby’s scared of a little ol’ owl, is she?" Bronson slurred, leering down at Maddy, who stared up at him with wide eyes, although her nose was wrinkling a little at the smell of him. He had been drinking, apparently. Even Thyme could smell the ale on him. "Ya know…th’ story’s true," he was saying in a harsh whisper, as though sharing some great secret. "Ol’ Willie, he was tellin’ the truth. He done seen somethin’ that night, an’ I can prove it, too." He laughed loudly at some imagined joke as Maddy nervously looked for an escape route.

Her eyes met those of her sister’s, pleading for help, and Thyme, grim faced, rose from her seat and sauntered over to the group huddled around the fire. "I think you need to go cool your head outside," she stated firmly, fixing Bronson with a fierce glare. "I don’t like anybody bullying my sister, especially the likes of you."

Bronson stared at her through blood-shot eyes. "What’re ya gonna do if I don’t, li’l girl?" he challenged, and as he spoke, two of his friends walked up beside him and glared meaningfully at Thyme. They smelled almost as bad as he did.

Thyme shrugged delicately, flexing her fist. "Come on, Bronson," she said lightly. "We both know I can knock you flat on your back in the best of times, and you’re barely sober enough to stand against a spring breeze at the moment."

Bronson glared at her. He may have been drunk, but he knew when he was being insulted, and in front of his pals, no less. "Why don’ you jus’ git yerself lost?" he grumbled.

Thyme snorted. "I was about to ask you the same thing," she retorted. "Let my sister alone."

"Big words, comin’ from a half-pint like you," he sneered. "I was jist tellin’ the li’l brat that th’ owl’s gonna come an’ carry ‘er off if she weren’t careful. It likes little girls. Likes to eat ‘em fer dinner, ain’t that right?" He grinned and looked at Maddy, who glared back at him as his friends chuckled.

"That’s not true!" the child protested, but she didn’t sound as certain as she might have. "There’s no owl, is there, Thyme?"

"Of course not," Thyme replied. "It’s just a story to scare children. Whatever happened to that boy, he wasn’t carried off by the Ghost Owl."

Maddy looked relieved, but Bronson wasn’t giving up. "Tha’s what you think," he declared. "Ol’ Willie, he’s the one what found th’ feather, ain’t he? He’s a grown man, an’ he seems t’ believe it’s real," he pointed out smugly.

Thyme rolled her eyes. "Old Willie also claims that he’s got a fairy trapped in his clothes chest," she snapped. "Bronson, aren’t you a little old to believe in ghosts?"

Bronson looked at her sourly. "All’s I’m sayin’ is Willie was somewhere that night. I was there, too, ya know. I seen him come runnin’ into the village like ‘is tail was on fire. He sure saw somethin’ that night."

Thyme was surprised. She hadn’t known that. She eyed him suspiciously. "You’re making that up, and if you believe it’s real then you’re drunker than I thought," she accused. "Go to bed and sleep off that ale before you fall into the fire place. And take your lapdogs with you."

"I ain’t makin’ anything up!" Bronson exclaimed. "I seen it! I did! Was near dawn when Ol’ Willie came runnin’ home, bellowin’ about some giant bird with fire for eyes. Surprised he didn’t wake up the whole village the way he was hollerin’."

Thyme frowned. "What were you doing out before dawn, anyhow?" she asked suspiciously.

Bronson gave her an innocent look. "Was checkin’ my wolf traps," he replied. "Wasn’t I, boys?" His friends nodded vigorously in agreement.

Of course, if he told me he had been fishing for bears in the river, they’d probably agree to that, too, Thyme thought sourly. She didn’t believe him. It was too late into the cold season to be trapping wolves. Most of them had headed to warmer grounds below the mountains where most of the game had migrated. And Bronson was no hunter. He didn’t have the brains to trap any creature, especially the intelligent wolves. Besides, the few left in the forest could probably smell him coming a mile off. "Well, I guess it isn’t important," she muttered, deciding not to pursue the subject. "But I’m telling you that there’s no such thing as a Ghost Owl, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go terrorizing my sister with your stupid stories. Bad enough Old Willie tells ‘em. At least he’s good at it."

Bronson gave her a contemptuous glance. "Okay, Miss Know-it-all," he sneered. "Yer so smart, how’s about a bet, aye? I dare you ta go into the forest tonight. I dare ya to stay the night there, an’ if the Owl don’t carry you off, then that’ll prove it ain’t real, an’ no more words about it, huh?"

Thyme looked at him disdainfully, although a bit of unease was making its way through her mind. "The Owl only steals children, remember?" she replied, speaking as though to a dull-witted toddler. "Even if it were real, which it ain’t, it wouldn’t take me anyhow."

"What about th’ girl what went missin’ last winter?" one of Bronson’s friends pointed out. "She was yer age. Vanished without a trace, jus’ like the boy. From the same village, too. An’ what about Jana? ‘Member her?"

Thyme felt a chill creep up her spine. She did remember Jana, a girl eight years older than her that had lived in her village. Ten years ago, she had gone into the forest and had never come out again. Thyme had been six years old when Jana had disappeared. The entire village had spent weeks searching for her, but they never found her. Most folk claimed that Jana had run off, because her father had used to beat her, and she was rather a wild girl. But deep down, Thyme had always felt it to be otherwise. It was a mystery even to this day. Another mystery. It seemed like the village, and everything around it, was full of mystery.

"Okay, fine. So people my age vanish too. That don’t mean anything," she snapped. "This place is so dull. Nothing ever changes here. Probably they all ran off to see the world or something. Saints know I’ve thought about it often enough!"

"So prove it then. Go out in the forest an’ spend the night, an’ come back an’ that’ll prove there’s no Ghost Owl," Bronson replied triumphantly.

"Are you friggin’ crazy? It’s freezing out there! I ain’t gonna spend an entire night out there in the snow!" Thyme cried.

"Well, then, go later, closer to dawn. That’s when they were supposed to’ve vanished, anyhow," he replied with a smirk. "Whazza matter? Can’t handle a little snow? Or are you scared of a ghost?"

Thyme glared at him, knowing she had walked right into that one. She glanced at Maddy, who was looking at her hopefully, with something akin to adoration in her eyes. To Maddy, her sister could do anything. She really didn’t want to shatter the child’s perception of her.

"Fine," she bit out. "I’ll go. Before dawn comes, I’ll go into the forest, and I’ll prove once and for all that there’s no stupid Ghost Owl, and that’ll be the end of it, okay? And Maddy, if you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you disappear myself. Same goes for the rest of you!" Referring to the other children watching the drama unfold with wide eyes. They nodded at her quickly, knowing Thyme did not make idle threats.

"Right. Well, guess I’d better go get some sleep then. Saints know I’m gonna need it," she muttered, stomping out of the hall toward her hut, Maddy in tow.

"I’ll be by before dawn t’ wake ya up!" Bronson shouted behind her, followed by the laughter of his friends. The gleeful tone of his voice let Thyme know that she was going to regret her decision before the night was over. Indeed, she already did.

* * * *

And that’s where Thyme was now. Alone in a dark forest, surrounded by trees and ice and wind, and the saints only knew how many wild animals. She knew there were still wolves in the forest; her own brother had shot one just the other day while hunting rabbits. It had been mad, and he’d had to fire three arrows into it before it died. Thyme could still remember the revolting smell of burning hair and flesh when they’d tossed it into the fire pit dug away from the village for just such a purpose. This time of year, the foaming sickness ran rampant throughout the forest. One could never be too careful.

The wind suddenly picked up with a shriek, and Thyme cursed yet again and huddled still further into her cloak, her back against a tree to afford her some protection. However, the wind had shifted, and now it was blowing full in her face, carrying snow along with it. She didn’t remember ever being so cold in her life. She amused herself by imagining the most horrible forms of revenge she could come up with for the one who had stuck her out there, and felt a little warmer at the thought of his yells for mercy while she hoisted him up into a tree by his toes.

Then the wind died.

She didn’t know how else to explain it. Later, when she tried, the only thing she could think of was that she had been sitting out in the open, and then something had dropped an invisible box over her that had blocked out the wind. Only it wasn’t just over her, but the entire forest. The horrible shrieking of air through the trees cut off abruptly, and the rattling of ice-covered branches stilled only moments later, and Thyme found herself sitting in a perfectly silent forest.

Her eyes went wide, and her heart raced ahead even as she froze, like a startled hare. Her skin prickled with the feeling of danger, and her breathing went quick and shallow…and oh-so-loud in that silent forest.

Something’s out there.

The thought echoed over and over in her mind, and she barely noticed that she had begun shaking. Something was out there, and that something was so sinister that even the wind dared not disturb its passing.

The Ghost Owl…

Yet again, the song of the Ghost Owl and Old Willie’s story echoed in her head, and she shoved it away. Poppycock, as her mother would say. Pure fiction. There was no such thing.

Something else told her that she wasn’t so sure…

Then she heard something above the harsh sounds of her breathing. Something that sounded like velvet snapping in the wind, like her mother’s good dress after being washed and hung to dry on a windy day. Something like the near-silent echo of wing beats shattering the still air.

Thyme’s heart stopped, and she clutched something in her hand so hard her knuckles cracked. She looked down and saw that she was holding a bone-handled knife. A dagger her father had given to her before he died, and had taught her how to wield and throw like an expert. She hadn’t even remembered drawing it.

If that is the Ghost Owl, I don’t know that a knife’s gonna be any use in saving myself from it, she thought. It was made of iron, which, while it might be useful in warding off any local fae, would probably do nothing more to a ghost than to pass right through it. But it was all she had, and she held on to it like a drowning man to his raft. If she was going to go, she was going to go kicking and screaming the whole way. She wasn’t called a fighter for nothing, after all.

Slowly she stood up, slipping the dagger into her belt where she could easily reach it. There was no way she was going to sit around and wait for whatever was out there to find her. She was going to find it, first, and get the drop on it, if possible. Ghost or no ghost. The way she figured it, if the Ghost Owl was solid enough to carry people off, then it was solid enough to allow a dagger to inflict some damage, if only enough to allow her to escape.

There came a low sound, an eerie cry, off to her left, and she froze. It had sounded like an owl’s call, only much deeper than any owl she’d ever heard. She crept silently toward the sound, for once grateful to the snow that muffled her footsteps…so long as she didn’t step on a buried branch or anything.

There was a little clearing just ahead. She knew the place well. In the summer the bushes surrounding it were filled with blackberries, and she’d spent many a warm day picking them for her mother, and eating half of them herself. Right now, those bushes were bare of leaves and berries both, but they still provided enough cover so that she could crawl silently forward, mindless of the snow soaking through her clothes. There was…a figure in the clearing. The moon shone down full upon it, and she could see that it was definitely an owl. It was huge, but she had expected that. That’s what all the stories had said. What she had not expected was for it to be so…beautiful.

That was the only word to describe it. It was the size of a large dog, and the moon turned its feathers, which must have been the color of mist on a summer’s morning, to silver, shining and soft. Its eyes were as fierce as a hawk’s, and burned golden in the moonlight. They seemed ancient, those eyes, as though possessing a wisdom that far outweighed man’s intelligence.

The Ghost Owl is real, she thought, in somewhat of a daze. I don’t believe it. The Ghost Owl is real.

And if that was the case, then she was in very real danger. For the first time, she began to realize just how much. Those talons were probably just as sharp as her dagger, and there were seven times as many. Not to mention its beak…She forced herself not to panic and slowly began to back away from the clearing. If she could just get away without it seeing her…

Thyme did the only thing she could do in that situation.

She attacked.

Of course, she didn’t realize she was going to attack until she was already on her feet and launching herself at the Owl as quickly as it was launching itself at her. She was a cornered fox. The instinct to run was no longer available, so her second instinct was to fight back, and it took her over, banishing her fear. She yelled as she met the Owl head-on, her dagger flashing downward even as she felt claws painfully gripping her flesh. The weight was more than she’d expected. It felt like a wolf had tackled her, bowling her over. There was nothing but feathers and talons and piercing, golden eyes, and then she was on her back in the snow, struggling to keep the sharp beak from tearing her face. Again the dagger flashed, desperately trying to make contact, and this time she felt it hit home.

The Owl screamed.

It wasn’t the cry of a wounded bird. It was the cry of a wounded man. Thyme felt the incredible pressure of the bird’s claws on her shoulders ease, and the Owl tumbled back, its wings flailing wildly as it hit the snow. She watched it for a moment, half frozen with shock, before she realized dimly that only the one wing was flailing. The other was dragging uselessly on the ground, crimson staining the upper joint near the shoulder, seeping from velvet feathers and falling in bright droplets to the ground.

I…I hurt it, she thought dazedly. The Ghost Owl can be hurt…

But now the Owl seemed so…normal. So much like a bird flapping in its agony that Thyme felt horrified that she could have so cold-heartedly wounded it. She had never injured another creature before in her life. And then the Owl cried out again, that eerie scream, and its gaze—filled with far too much cunning to be a mere bird’s—fixed firmly on her.

Her senses came back to her in a rush, and along with them, her terror. She hesitated no longer; turned and fled into the forest toward home, mindless of the branches that whipped in her face, expecting to feel sharp talons pierce her flesh at any given moment.

Finally, the faint fire-glow of the village came into view, and she stumbled into it, gasping for breath, fearing she would pass out from shock. A pink tinge highlighted the sky, telling her that dawn was not far off. Shivering with cold, she crept back into her hut, silently entering her room, glad that she was old enough to not have to share with her sister.

She was sore all over as she stripped from her stained, torn clothes. She examined her shoulders critically, and nearly wept with relief when she found that there was nothing more than a few painful welts where the talons had clutched her. Rather odd, considering the strength of them, but at the moment she was far too exhausted to wonder what it meant. She climbed into her bed, pulled the covers up over her head, and immediately fell into an exhausted slumber.

* * * *

It was bright. And loud. Thyme was rudely jerked awake by brilliant light flooding the room and an insistent pounding on her door. Never being much of a morning person to begin with, she sat up and glared at it through blurry eyes the color of the summer sky.

"What?!" she snarled.

"Get up, lazy!" her little sister shouted back. "Mama needs your help." Her voice took on the hint of excitement. "They found a man in the woods this morning! He’s hurt real bad, and there’s blood everywhere, and he wasn’t even wearing a stitch of clothes! In the middle of winter!"

"What?!"

This time Thyme’s bellow was one of surprise. "Hold on, let me get dressed. I’ll be right out," she called, leaping out of bed and hopping across the cold floor toward her chest of clothes.

"Bring hot water, too," Maddy called. There was a moment of silence. Then, "Did you see the Ghost Owl last night?"

Thyme froze as the memories of the previous night came back in a sudden rush, and her shoulders stung faintly in sympathetic response. "Um…no," she lied. "I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? If the Ghost Owl had been real, I probably would’ve vanished just like all the others." There was no need to frighten the child to death, after all. "Look, go help Mum until I get out there," she called firmly. There was the sound of feet walking away, and the wooden door slamming as Maddy went outside.

Thyme took a few hurried moments to clean herself up and apply some healing salve to the welts on her shoulders. They looked a little better, but they still hurt. She grimaced, hoping nobody would notice so she wouldn’t have to explain how she’d gotten them. Not that anyone would believe her anyway…

After throwing on a fresh tunic and breeches, Thyme braided her long, ebony hair and ran outside, pausing long enough to pull on her boots and cloak and pull off the pot of hot water from the fire. She headed toward the healing cottage beside the river, where her mother, Maven (who was the village healer) treated those who were ill or injured. There was a crowd gathered outside the small hut, all chattering about the man. Mostly the old gossips, Thyme noted with disgust. She had to nearly yell to make her voice heard above the others to let her pass, and she received a few insulted glares, to which she replied by closing the door firmly behind her.

"What do you need me to do, Mum?" she asked briskly as she set the pot of water over the fire, where another pot was already heating.

"Make sure there are enough bandages ready. The wound isn’t large, but it is deep. Poor fellow must have been robbed, stabbed through his shoulder, and left for dead in the forest. Good thing your brother Jonathan found him when he was hunting this morning. Nobody’s ever seen him before. He must have been traveling through on his way to the big city beyond the forest," Maven replied.

Thyme nodded briskly and began to pull supplies that her mother would need. Thread to sew the wound, ointment and herbs to prevent infection and ease pain, white bandages to wrap it. What else…? She looked around, mentally counting off the items she would need, and her gaze fell upon the silent, still form laying on the low, cushioned table beside her.

Her breath abruptly left her, and her heart stilled for the barest instant before racing on again, and she suddenly felt flushed and overheated in one moment, freezing cold the next. She could not lift her gaze. She tried, but it was like she had no will. She could only stare in stunned wonder at the man laying before her.

Beautiful.

That was the word to for it, but it didn’t even begin to describe him. He was…breathtakingly beautiful, even though his face was drawn with pain, and his brow was bathed in sweat, and his skin was the color of alabaster.

He had narrow, almost sharp, features. A pointed chin, an aquiline nose and defined cheekbones. Silver brows swept sharply upward, and beneath them a pair of large eyes tilted slightly, like a cat’s eyes, lined with long, black lashes. They were closed at the moment, so she couldn’t see their color, but Thyme was nearly certain that they would be a vivid green. His mouth held a certain arrogance about it, the way a king’s mouth probably looked (not that Thyme had ever seen a real king before) but his wide lips looked warm, and soft…almost soft enough to kiss…

Stop that! she scolded herself sharply. The man’s practically lyin’ at Death’s door, and here I am dreaming about what it’d be like to kiss him! That’s just…sick! She shook herself and forced her gaze away from his lips and back to his closed eyes, suddenly wishing that he’d open them and look at her. Maybe they’re blue, like sapphires, she thought dreamily. Or as gray as the breast of a dove? Absently, her hand went to smooth back the man’s tangled hair, and then paused when she suddenly took note of its color.

It was silver.

Thyme’s mouth dropped open in surprise and she grabbed a fistful and held it into the sunlight that streamed into the unshuttered window. Yup. Definitely silver. Not gray, like Old Willie’s, or snow white like her grandmother’s had been before she’d died. It was somewhere in between, and it glowed as brightly as the precious metal where it caught the sunlight. It was also incredibly soft and fine to the touch, like strands of spidersilk all woven together, and it looked to be nearly as long as Thyme’s own raven locks, which hung all the way to her waist. But…only elders had hair of that color! And yet this man looked to be no more than in his second decade. At least, she had thought so, although now that she looked closer, it was almost as though the stranger held an air of agelessness about him. Like he could be both old and young all at once. Was that even possible?

Thyme dropped the handful of hair as though it had burned her, and it slid liquidly from the low table and pooled softly on the floor, its richness looking nearly obscene against smooth stone. Not dirt, as other huts had, because it had to be kept free of filth and insects. Stone floors were precious rare in a small village like Thyme’s, and only those who were rich could afford to have stone cut and laid in squares in their homes. But the healing cottage was something special. Still, even it dulled in comparison to the richness of that hair. Indeed, of the entire man!

"Mum," Thyme gasped, backing a step or two away from the stranger. "This man…he isn’t human!"

Maven looked at her daughter in surprise, then gave a short laugh. "What are you talking about, silly girl?" she scolded gently. "Of course he’s human! What else would he be? Now hold him still while I sew his shoulder."

Thyme automatically obeyed, placing her hands over the stranger’s arms to hold him steady, although she doubted he’d actually move. He appeared to be dead to the world. "But, Mum, look at him! Have you ever seen any man who looked like this? He has silver hair, Mum! Young people don’t have silver hair! And look how pretty he is! Too pretty to be a mere man! Almost as pretty as…one of the fae…"

Maven smiled grimly as she wiped clean the wound and began to close it with the thread. "Just because a man looks a little different does not make him inhuman," she said. "I think all those fairy stories you used to read have gone to your head. Now hold him still; he’s shifting a little."

Thyme glanced down at the stranger sharply, but he was still unconscious. She let her gaze drift to his wound. A wound in his shoulder…in the very place she had managed to stab the Ghost Owl last night… The thought nearly made her lose her grip on the man’s lean-muscled arms. What had the Ghost Owl to do with anything? Whatever he is, he isn’t an owl! she told herself shakily.

Maven had finished her sewing, and was now applying bandages soaked in medicinal herbs to the neatly stitched wound. "Here, lift him," she instructed, "so I can wrap his shoulder. Thyme obeyed, sliding her arm beneath the man’s bare back and lifting him into a sitting position.

His head lolled to rest on her shoulder, that incredibly fine hair brushing her face softly. She couldn’t help but notice how good he smelled. It wasn’t an earthy scent, like the way the village men smelled after working in the fields all day. It was something that she had never smelled before. It made her think of a perfect winter’s night, when the air was so fresh and clear that it crackled, and the sky was filled with millions upon millions of stars. Or the fields on a spring day when the wind blew so strong that it threatened to carry her off. Wild, and magical, and Thyme found it nearly intoxicating.

What’s the matter with me? she wondered faintly. A pretty face never turned my head like this before! I feel like…like I could be in love! Not that she knew what that felt like, since she had never actually been in love before. But this was ridiculous, of course. Never mind that this man’s face was prettier than most; she wasn’t her cousin Morgan, who was in love with a different boy every other week! She had never bothered much with men; they had never seemed worth the effort of bothering with. Besides, she wasn’t about to put on a fancy dress and go prancing and prattling around just to impress some guy! If she was to meet and marry someone, it would be on her own terms.

Thyme shook her head to clear it, aware that her mother had long since finished bandaging and had turned away to clean up, and she was still holding the man! Her cheeks turned red as she carefully lowered him to the table again, but she couldn’t help but notice that the sheet had fallen lower. He had a fine chest. She had seen plenty of bare chests before on men; most went without shirts on the hottest days in summer, but none had affected her like this one was doing. She could almost be angry with herself for admiring the lean muscled body.

He breathed shallowly, his chest rising and falling with short, uneven gasps, and she frowned as she placed her hand over his heart, trying to dispel the odd shiver that went up her arm when she touched him. His skin was overly warm, and his heartbeat was too quick. Her frowned deepened. This wasn’t right. It was only a shoulder wound. He should not be this ill.

"Mum, there’s something wrong with him," she said. "He’s fevered. I don’t think we helped any."

Maven turned and placed a hand against the stranger’s head, frowning slightly. "Hmmm…well, it might take awhile for the fever to break," she replied. "I have to go to Mara and Adam’s hut; their horse is beginning to foal, and I need to check up on them to make sure it’s going okay. I was doing that this morning when the men brought silverhair to me. Stay here and tend him until I get back."

"Yes’m," Thyme murmured as her mother hustled out of the hut. She sighed and pulled up a chair to the table, wetting a cloth in a pot of clean water and wiping it gently across the man’s brow. She had done this before, plenty of times, but she couldn’t remember feeling such a nagging worry before that a patient might die on her. He was so…still. She frowned and pushed the thought away as she wet the cloth again and squeezed it out over his hot chest.

"Whoever you are, you have to be okay," she said softly, hardly aware that she was speaking. "I have the feeling that you’re more than what you appear to be—as unusual as your appearance is!—and if you die nobody will ever know who you really are." She sighed and wiped the cloth over his brow again, pushing aside the long strands of silver. "I wish I knew what to do," she whispered. Then she fell silent as she continued to bathe him.

She barely noticed it at first, so intent was she on keeping him comfortable. It was when she went to wash his brow again that she realized…his eyes were open, and they were fixed firmly on her. She froze, as startled by the color of those eyes as she was by the fact that he was awake. She had been wrong in all of her guesses, it seemed. His eyes were neither green nor blue nor gray.

They were golden.

As golden as the Ghost Owl’s had been, fierce and bright, and right now they were glazed over with pain and fever and fear. It looked like he was trying to sit up, to flee the room, and only the fact that he was too weak to move kept him still. Nevertheless, Thyme felt alarmed that he might somehow manage to escape her. He was sick; he would die out there in the forest. He still had no clothes, and only the sheet wrapped about his waist kept him covered.

It was the Ghost Owl. Thyme was certain of it. As crazy as it sounded, she knew it to be true. The eyes told her. And the hair. The same color as the silvery-gray feathers. How an owl had managed to turn itself into a man was beyond her, but she had already known that this was no ordinary man. Was he of the fae? Old Willie had told her enough stories so that she knew a little about them. If so, it was no wonder he was frightened. All the stories had told that mortals and the faerie were enemies. Men feared the fae, and the fae despised men. They would kill each other given the chance. Apparently it was all true, if the fear in those eyes was real.

But he tried to kill you last night, remember? a little voice whispered in her head. Yes, and she had defended herself with a dagger. An iron dagger…

"Iron!" Thyme gasped as a realization hit her. "No wonder you’re so ill! The dagger was iron, and iron is deadly to fae, and I’ve poisoned you with it!" She sat back in the chair, her eyes never leaving his face. He seemed a bit calmer now; apparently deciding that she wasn’t going to hurt him. She herself, now that the shock was fading, was feeling a little braver.

"What am I going to do with you?" she whispered. "You’re dangerous. You’ve stolen children away, and you tried to kill me. I can’t leave you here! But…I can’t send you back out there, either. You’ll die. It’ll be my fault. Not," she added viciously, "that you didn’t deserve whatever I gave you, but it’s still cruel to turn you out. Besides, my mother would not understand. She has this moral that all sick creatures, no matter how undeserving, should be healed."

The fae regarded her silently, his face expressionless. He had struggled to sit up, and his naked chest was heaving with the effort of it. Thyme allowed a wry smile to cross her face. "Well, at least I know I’m safe around you at the moment. I doubt you’re strong enough to harm a kitten in the state you’re in."

At that, he looked incredibly insulted, and she laughed. "Well, at least you can understand me, even if you won’t talk. Look, don’t blame me for what happened, okay? I mean, you tried to kill me! What was I supposed to do, let you?" She glared at him briefly, then pushed a hand through her dark hair. "Okay, you’re in need of help, and I know someone who might be able to heal you, if there is a cure for iron poisoning. I’m going to get him now. Don’t move, got it? If you do, don’t think I’m gonna come running after you! You’ll deserve whatever Fate gives you then!"

She stood up, cautiously, afraid that he might bolt, or attack. Either one, and she’d knock him silly with the water pot, no question about it. Apparently he seemed to know what she was thinking, for he made no move to rise from the table. Rather, he slid back down and rested his head on the pillows, his gaze still resting on her face in a most unnerving manner. She coughed and shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well…I’ll be right back," she said, and bolted from the cottage.

After questioning her neighbors, Thyme discovered that Old Willie was in the hall. She should have known, she supposed. Luckily it was still early enough so that he wasn’t blind-drunk. Thyme headed toward him determinedly…only to find her path blocked by none other than Bronson and friends. "Get out of my way," she said firmly.

"Or you’ll do what?" Bronson sneered, and his friends chuckled.

"I’ll give you a good beating, is what," she snapped. "I’m busy. You can either move it or lose it!"

"So, did the big bad Ghost Owl scare you last night?" Bronson taunted, ignoring her threat.

"I’m still here, ain’t I?" she snapped. "That says enough."

"The Ghost Owl only carries off pretty girls, not ugly wenches like you," he said nastily. "Guess that’s why it didn’t take you."

Thyme stared him straight in the eye. "Well, that explains why it never took you either, then, now doesn’t it?" she retorted sweetly, and shoved past him hard enough to make him stumble into his friends. He shouted in anger and started after her, but a sharp look from Old Willie, who had witnessed the entire scenario, caused him to turn tail and skulk away with his pals at his heels, instead.

"One of these days that boy’s gonna go too far," Willie said firmly as he waved Thyme into a seat. "Now, what’s a pretty thing like you want with an old timer like me?" he asked teasingly.

Thyme smiled, then became serious and leaned toward him. "I saw the Ghost Owl last night," she told him in a whisper.

The effect on Old Willie was astounding. He straightened up, sucking air through his teeth, and then gestured for her to follow him. He led her outside toward his hut, a somewhat run-down old shanty sitting beside the river. But it was clean, and it was private. "Here, sit down. Tell Old Willie about it," the man said, taking a seat at a rickety table and lighting his pipe.

Thyme bit her lip. "It’s kind of unbelievable," she admitted.

Willie snorted. "At my age, you can afford to believe in the unbelievable," he replied. "Go on. Start talkin’."

So talk she did, telling him about the bet, and how she had gone into the forest and had been attacked and how she had escaped—Old Willie’s eyes lit with admiration at that part—and about the man that had been found in the woods that morning, naked, bleeding, the wound in just the place she had stabbed the Owl…

"Am I crazy?" she finished up. "I mean…the fae are just stories, aren’t they? They can’t be real! But…this man certainly looks real to me!"

Willie sniffed and blew a bit of ash from his pipe. "The fae are real right enough," he replied. "My granddaddy was took by one, did ya know? Some wood elf witched him inta followin’ her through the gate into their world, an’ that was that. Never seen my granddaddy again after that. They’re sly, them fae folk. They make a person believe that they can touch their dreams, an’ then they close in fer the kill."

"What about those stories that the Ghost Owl ate those he caught?" Thyme asked.

He snorted. "Just stories. Th’ fae can be nasty, but they ain’t cannibals. Sometimes they can even be friendly. Just cain’t be trusted, is all. Most likely the Owl done carried off them kids to the Under-realms ta live. See, thing with the fae is that they like children. Kids is precious rare ta them, so they take those kids what don’t have good homes and give ‘em better ones in their lands with new parents. Might be wrong to us, but ta them, anyone who abuses their kids don’t deserve ‘em, so they take ‘em away. All those kids the Owl stole, they was from poor homes."

"I never thought of that," Thyme said wryly. "Not that it makes it any better!"

"Course not, but them tricksters go on their own set of rules, see. We’re more like pets or playthings than people to them."

Thyme sighed. "But I’m from a good home, and he tried to steal me," she said. "Or maybe he was trying to kill me. I don’t know…"

"Might’ve been trying to render you unconscious so’s that he could take away yer memories and escape," Willie suggested.

"Why not use magic on me?" Thyme asked. "Wouldn’t that have been easier?"

"You probably startled him much as he startled you. Natural instinct’s to fight when ya cain’t run."

Well, that was true enough. She remembered how she’d felt like a cornered fox bristling for a fight. "I used an iron dagger to stab him with," she said slowly. "If he’s fae, I probably poisoned him, didn’t I?"

Old Willie looked grave. "Most likely," he agreed.

"I feel awful," Thyme groaned. "I didn’t want to kill him! I just wanted to get away! Which is why I’m here. I don’t suppose you know anything about healing a poisoned faerie, do you? I could use some help."

Old Willie thought a moment, then gave a nod of his shaggy head and stood up, going over to an old chest…probably the one that was supposed to have the pixie trapped inside, Thyme thought with amusement…and opened it carefully. No little pixie flew out, but there was a faint glimmer along the lid, like a magical glow, and Thyme’s eyebrows shot up. Well, he sure had something in that box!

"This’s it," Willie exclaimed, pulling out a leather pouch and opening it. He dumped a large brooch into his palm. A beautiful thing finely crafted of the purest gold, with a large garnet set into the center and cut into the shape of a blood-red rose. "This was given me by my granddaddy before he vanished. Told me it might come in handy someday. Never knew what it was for, but he said it was given him in exchange fer a service rendered. That’s another thing about the fae. You manage to help one of ‘em, they always repay their debts to ya. This little talisman bears the mark of Queen Mabb on it, so it’s mighty powerful."

"The Faerie Queen?" Thyme gasped.

"The same," Willie replied proudly. "My granddaddy must’ve done her some service long ago. Here. Take it and see if it’ll help."

"I can’t take this!" Thyme gasped. "It belongs to you! You’re the one who should give it to him."

"No, I’ve had my share of fae magic. If you help him, he’ll be bound by honor to return the favor. I’m sure you’ll know what to wish for," Willie replied practically.

"But…"

"No point in arguing about it, girlie. I done made up my mind. I have everything I need, an’ I never did trust that magic stuff. But yer young an’ pretty, an’ there’s nothin’ a fae appreciates more’n a pretty face. Sure an’ he’ll keep his bargain with you. Go on, take it."

"I…thank you, Willie. I appreciate it," Thyme replied seriously.

"Ah, git on out o’ here and help yer faerie man," Willie said with an embarrassed chuckle. "An’ don’t go tellin’ about this t’ anyone, hear me? Them village folk ain’t so understandin’ as I am. They find out who your faerie man is, an’ most likely they’ll come after ‘im with a lynchin’ mob!"

Thyme nodded seriously, then smiled at him and turned and hurried back to the healing cottage, the brooch held securely in her hands.

The man was asleep when she came into the cottage, but as soon as Thyme approached him, holding the talisman, his eyes flew open and his gaze fixed firmly upon it in astonishment. "Where did you get that?" he demanded harshly.

It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice flowed musically over Thyme’s senses like water over a rock, magical and elemental and wild all at once. She closed her eyes for a brief moment as the feeling faded, then opened them again, feeling silly at her reaction. "Doesn’t matter where I got it. This belonged to Queen Mabb. It can help you," she told him, trying to make her voice come out normally. Then she hesitated.

"I-I’ve never used a faerie talisman before. What do I do with it?"

His expression seemed to soften. "Place it near my heart," he replied. "The magic will heal me, and hopefully remove the poison."

Thyme nodded as she took the few final steps toward the table. She held out the brooch, noting that it seemed to glow more brightly than any earthly metal. Then she placed it against his chest between his heart and the wound, hoping that it would be strong enough to heal him. As she moved to lift her hand, his own suddenly came up to cover it, holding it there. Startled, her gaze rose to meet his. He was smiling slightly, and his eyes held a gleam in them that she didn’t know how to interpret.

"Um…now what?" she asked nervously.

"Now, wish for me to be well," he replied.

She nodded and closed her eyes, silently willing the dormant magic to awaken, to flow into the fae and drive out the poison that sickened him. Her brow furrowed in concentration, but she felt no change. "I-it’s not working," she said.

"You try too hard, Thyme. You’re trying to force the magic out. It will come on its own," he replied.

Thyme was startled at the use of her name. She didn’t remember telling him what it was. It occurred to her, suddenly, that she had no idea what his name was. Well, now wasn’t the time to ask. She sighed deeply and concentrated again. This time, however, rather than force the magic out, she tried to sort of…coax it out.

The effect was immediate. The brooch flared, so brightly that even with her eyes closed she had to turn her head. Her hand would have let go if not for his own holding it there. She opened her eyes a crack and saw that the area around their joined hands was glowing brightly, the light emanating from the brooch. It traveled slowly, spreading all across his body. He closed his eyes and let out a rapturous sigh as the magic flowed into him, healing him and easing his pain.

Thyme was not unaffected by it. She saw the glow was spreading up her own arm, and she gasped and tried to yank her hand away in fear, but he didn’t let go.

It took a moment for her to realize that his voice was inside her head, and her eyes flew to his in astonishment. He met her gaze squarely. The magic allows us to speak in this way. It will fade when the healing is finished, he explained.

Who are you? she asked silently. What’s your name, and where did you come from?

My name is Shael, he replied, and you know who I am and where I come from.

"Yes," he replied, releasing her hand. She reluctantly withdrew it, leaving the brooch where it rested on his chest. Her hand felt funny. She frowned and turned it over, and then she leaped to her feet with a gasp.

"What have you done to me?" she cried furiously, holding her hand out to him. There, seared into the center of her palm, was the image of the rose on the brooch, Queen Mabb’s symbol. She hadn’t even realized…there was no pain at all, and yet her palm was burned and red around the brand. "You tricked me!" she accused angrily. "What does this mean?"

He took her hand and regarded the wound calmly, lightly tracing its outline with a slender finger. "Fae magic brands all mortals who come into contact with it," he told her calmly. "It is merely a sign that you have been touched by one of my kind. Some of your people would call it faerie-blessed."

"Don’t you mean faerie-cursed?" she asked scathingly.

His golden eyes sparked as he raised them to meet hers. "You should feel honored," he told her coldly. "You bear the mark of Queen Mabb. Should you meet any more of my people who would cause you trouble, merely show this sign to them. They will not cause you harm and risk the wrath of our queen."

"Oh, I feel so much better now," she snarled, jerking her hand away from him and rubbing the mark as though to make it vanish by will alone. "I’d rather not meet any of your kind, if they’re anything like you, baby-snatcher!"

His expression grew dark as a storm cloud. "You are brave to speak to me in this manner, little one. I hold no love of mortals, either. Be careful, or I may be forced to punish you for your insolence."

Thyme’s eyes narrowed and she snatched up an iron poker from the fireplace, brandishing it like a sword. "Go ahead and try it, Silverhair," she snapped. "I may have saved your life, but I swear on my father’s grave that I won’t hesitate to knock you clear into the next world if you even think of trying to hurt me again! I don’t take kindly to being attacked for no good reason!"

"You startled me," he replied calmly. "In my owl form, instinct rules, and I merely did what I must to survive."

"So do you want a pat on the back, or what?"

A slight smile crossed his beautiful features. "I have never met a mortal quite like you," he mused, cocking his head to one side. The movement caused his hair to ripple like a sun-lit stream.

"Charmed, I’m sure," she retorted, trying to ignore the annoying flutters in her stomach. His smile widened and he tried to sit up further, swinging long legs over the side of the table. He paused when the poker came up threateningly, holding out a hand to ward off any possible blows.

"I’m not going to harm you, wildcat," he told her, his musical voice showing a hint of annoyance. "I’ve had enough dealings with mortal fear for one night."

She sniffed and let the tip of the poker touch the floor, although she didn’t relinquish her grip on it. No way was she that stupid!

And then, Shael stood, and when he did so the sheet covering him dropped to the floor. Thyme’s eyes widened at the sight of the fae standing there in all his natural glory before quickly turning away, as much to hide her burning cheeks as to give him privacy.

"Whatever is the matter?" Shael asked, sounding genuinely confused. "You’re embarrassed! Whatever for?"

"Well, now, let me think! Could it be because…you’re not wearing any clothes?!" Thyme yelled, refusing the urge to turn back around for a better look at him. She’d seen men before, of course; it was all part of being a healer. But usually her mother was in the room, and of course, none of them had been Shael. She heard him chuckle mockingly and gritted her teeth against another urge…this time to turn around and belt him one in that perfect face of his. She refused to be made a fool of in her own home! Especially by an arrogant faerie!

And then she felt slender hands grip her shoulders, kneading her flesh gently, and warm breath in her ear as he pressed up close behind her. "You saved my life," he breathed in her ear, causing a violent shiver to run down her spine. "Let me thank you in the best way I know how."

Thyme could hardly breathe. What was the trickster doing to her? She felt soft lips brush her throat as his corn-silk hair tickled her chin, and her heart nearly stopped. She wanted to make some retort, but her brain seemed to have stopped working. She had never felt a fire like the one that was now burning through her, and part of her didn’t want it to stop.

Then his fingers began to trace over the front of her shirt, heading south with light, feathery touches, and as they reached her breasts she finally found the will to tear herself away, whirling around and glaring at him spitefully. "Nice try, Silverhair, but I don’t think so," she snapped, brandishing the poker again. "Another stunt like that, and I can guarantee that you won’t be leaving here with all your parts attached." She glanced meaningfully in a certain area, and he backed away, looking half smug and half afraid.

"What a strange creature you are," he murmured. "Most women would gladly accept what I offer."

"Most women aren’t me," she retorted sharply, ignoring the throb in her heart. "Besides, what you offer is hardly useful."

"Useful!" He looked outraged. "Do you dare insult…"

"Oh, stuff a sock in it," she huffed. "I’m not insulting your manliness or ego or whatever you prefer to call it. They’re both the same to me." She grinned wickedly at his furious expression. "I’m just saying that for your…payment…I have something better in mind, and if what the stories say is true, then you’re bound by oath and honor to accept it. Isn’t that right?"

He sulked for a moment, then reluctantly nodded.

She nodded, too, looking quite pleased with herself. "Good. Then here is what I want from you."

"I suppose it will be wealth or fame or perhaps a spell or curse to cast upon a despised member of your race," he muttered.

She laughed, but then turned serious. "Maybe under normal circumstances, but not now. What I really want is for you to stop stealing away our children just because you think you have the right. You don’t. You think you cause good, but you cause more pain than anything, and I want it to stop, right now."

He looked stunned. Whatever he had been expecting, it obviously was not this. "Stop taking children?" he gasped. "You haven’t the right to ask that of me!"

"I have every right to ask that of you! I’m not asking, in fact. I’m telling you, do not take our children! In fact, I want you to return the one you stole from the other village last week, and any others you’ve stolen since then. Remember, you are sworn to uphold my request…or is that part of the stories untrue?" She made her voice as mocking as possible, and he drew himself up haughtily.

"Honor is a part of our being. I would not shame my race by refusing…but I don’t have to like it," he replied darkly. He began to pace, silver hair drifting behind him as he turned his back on her. "Mortals are such stupid creatures sometimes," he told her disdainfully. "The maidens of my race can rarely bear children as you can, yet children are precious to us. But your kind doesn’t even realize what gifts they hold! It sickens me to see how they are abused! If I can save a single child from that pain, then I have done my duty!" He turned on her suddenly, his eyes blazing. "You cannot ask me to stop helping those who need it! There are children who would be beaten to death if not for my intervention!"

"Look, I understand what you’re saying," Thyme said gently. "It is a terrible thing to have children living in such terrible homes, but it is not your place to steal them from those homes! They are the children of mortals, and mortals have their own laws about how to help them."

"Useless!" Shael snarled. "All useless! I have seen these laws at work! They do nothing but delay the inevitable. If mortals cannot care for those that depend on them, they do not deserve to keep them! Where I take them, they grow up loved and cared for, and all the pain they suffered is gone."

"And their memories of their real life are gone, as well, aren’t they?" Thyme asked quietly.

His face became still. "If necessary," he replied coolly. "If they’re too old to forget where they came from on their own."

"So they live not knowing who they really are. Is that any better?"

"At least they live. They do not need to know of their pasts."

"How many of them cry for their parents when you first take them? How many weep with fear when you bring them to your world before you take away their memories? How many beg and plead for you to take them back again before you wrap them in enchantment?" she asked seriously.

He didn’t reply, merely turned away.

She nodded. "I thought so," she added, her voice dead. "These children don’t want to be taken from their families, and yet you ignore their wishes. You claim to love and protect them, but stealing them away from their homes and families, no matter how terrible they seem to you, is not loving them. You don’t do things like that to people you love."

"You know nothing about it!" he snapped, turning on her again.

She shrugged. "Maybe not, but this is my wish, and by your own admittance you are sworn to uphold it," she replied viciously.

He seemed to deflate, suddenly, and lowered his head. "Ask of me anything else, and I’ll gladly give it to you," he pleaded. "Ask me anything."

"I don’t want anything else," she replied.

"Curse you, child!" His head snapped up, his eyes blazing with fury. She backed away, thinking distantly that she was getting rather tired of these sudden mood swings of his. First fury, then pain and defeat, now back to fury…the tales of his kind’s unpredictable temperaments apparently weren’t exaggerated, either. "Why must you be so stubborn?" he continued.

She allowed a small, nervous smile to cross her features. "I’m a mortal," she replied mockingly. "Stubbornness is a natural trait of my kind."

He glared at her for a moment, apparently trying to think of another way to get her to change her mind. Then a sly, catlike smile crossed his features for the barest of moments, before his eyes narrowed lazily and a seductive smile graced his lips. "Are you certain you won’t accept my first offer?" he nearly purred, his voice covering her like soft velvet. "I can give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams…" Her eyes widened and she swallowed, hard. She could feel his voice pulling at her, magical and mysterious, and she was nearly tempted to give into it, to go to him and give herself over to his hands…

She blinked rapidly, fighting the confusion that fogged her brain. She knew he was trying to cast an enchantment on her, to lure her to him so he could do what he wanted with her to break his oath. Luckily for her, she was stronger than he realized. She stopped herself from taking those few steps to him, digging in her heels, and looked around for the poker, which she had dropped. "I don’t know. I have a pretty wild imagination," she told him, looking him in the eye.

He seemed astonished at her ability to break his enchantment over her, though he quickly hid it. "What I can do to you would surpass it by far," he replied softly.

She snorted. "Well, you have some pretty lofty opinions of yourself, don’t you?"

A flash of anger. Then, he sighed, and abruptly the fog in her brain vanished. "You are truly unlike any mortal I have met, that can resist my magic so easily," he muttered.

She grinned. "I’ll take that as a compliment," she retorted cheerfully. "So, will you stay here while I get you some clothes, or are you going to run off into the forest again now that you’re healed?"

Again, that smile. "What do you want me to do?" he purred.

She shrugged. "Oh, it doesn’t matter to me, either way," she said carelessly, although in truth—and she’d rather die a thousand agonizing deaths than to ever admit it freely—she rather hoped he’d stay, if only for a little while. He did something to her that nobody had ever done, and even though she was furious at herself for letting her desires run away with her, the thought of him disappearing into the forest to never be seen again was almost…painful.

He cocked his head, as if to contemplate her words, and she noticed, for the first time, the tip of a gracefully pointed ear poking up slightly from the mass of hair. Only more proof that he isn’t human, she thought wonderingly.

"I believe I’ll stay for awhile," he suddenly announced.

She blinked in surprise. "Um…any particular reason?" she asked suspiciously.

He smiled slyly. "You amuse me," he told her with a graceful shrug, "and you surprise me. You also do not fear me. Most of all, you are resistant to my magic, although that is most likely because I am still weak. I cannot recall a time when a mere human has done any of these. I am curious to know what is so different about this mortal village that such a child as you could exist."

Thyme drew herself up haughtily. "I am not a child!" she snapped, turning her back on him. "And my village is no different from any other village! You just can’t stand the fact that someone you consider to be lower than dirt would dare to stand up to you and show some backbone!"

He looked surprised for a moment. Then a wry smile crossed his features. "Perhaps this is true, as well," he agreed, laughing softly. Then, proudly, "It is a strong…woman…indeed, who can resist my pleasures!"

"And there’s that arrogance again," she snorted. "Better be careful, or your head won’t fit through the door when you leave."

He laughed loudly at that. "Well, I trust this is a bit more comfortable for you?" he asked slyly.

She turned around and was astonished to find him fully clothed in silk and velvet of the finest cut and quality. The pale blue tunic draped his slender frame enticingly, opened to his waist to show off his chest. A wide, silver belt hugged lean hips, and from it hung a golden dagger, gleaming wickedly in the firelight. Velvet leggings of dove gray embraced his legs like a lover, accentuating every perfect line, and soft, white suede boots encased his feet. At his throat a large silver-and-sapphire brooch gleamed, cut into the form of a leaping stag, which held closed a royal blue, velvet cloak that brushed the ground behind him. His hair was braided and tied away from his face with a narrow, silver band.

"Does it suit you?" he murmured, well aware of her reaction.

She closed her mouth with a snap and shrugged. "Don’t you think people will wonder where you got these from?" she pointed out. "You’re dressed like a prince, and none of the villagers have clothes this fine! Why, that tunic alone must be worth half a year’s wages!"

He sighed. "I suppose you have a point," he replied, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Very well then." He seemed to shift and blur, and Thyme had to avert her eyes to avoid feeling sick at the sight of it. When she looked back again, he was dressed in a white cotton tunic, plain brown leggings and leather boots, the clothes of a commoner, although the tunic still hung open daringly low. The band that held back his wild hair was now a leather chord, and the magnificent cloak had vanished altogether. "Better?" he asked mockingly.

She sniffed. "It’s the middle of winter. Close that shirt or you’ll catch your death," she pointed out.

"Illness is a human weakness," he replied arrogantly. "I have no such troubles."

"But the villagers don’t know that, and unless you want them to know what you are, and what you’ve done, I suggest you dress the same as everyone else," she told him, speaking to him as though he were a dull-witted child. He glared angrily, then yanked the tunic closed and tied it at his throat, adding a plain cloak for good measure.

She nodded and stepped back to look at him. Then she sighed. He now looked like a prince dressed in rags. "Well, I guess it’ll do," she said. "Well, come on. You have to come out sometime, and I’m hungry. People are going to start wondering what’s going on in here. Are you sure you want to stay? You’re going to be swarmed all over with the villagers, and I can only imagine what my cousin will do when she sees you! She isn’t as reserved as I am."

"Really?" He looked interested, but subsided under her evil glare, smiling at her wickedly. "Are there many maids in your village?" he asked innocently.

"Yes, and they’re going to stay that way, understand?" she snapped. "You touch any of them, and I’ll be coming after you with more than a poker! I’ll use an ax, instead! A dull one!"

His laughter rang out as they left the cottage, and still echoed faintly long after the door had been closed.

Just as Thyme had feared, no sooner had she and her companion set foot into the main part of the village then they found themselves surrounded by villagers. Mostly the young women, and sure enough, beautiful Morgan was among them, gazing at Shael with something akin to adoration.

Thyme shoved back a wave of jealousy as her cousin sauntered over to the fae lord, gazing up at him from beneath thick lashes, through eyes the color of emeralds. Her hair—a deep, coppery red—gleamed like fire in the sun, and the dress she wore left nothing to the imagination. So the fae loved beautiful things, did they? Well, Thyme had no doubt that Shael would be able to resist Morgan! Not that he’d try…

"So, this is the mysterious stranger found nearly dead in the forest this morning," Morgan purred seductively. "I must say, Thyme, I didn’t realize he was quite so handsome. No wonder you’ve spent so long with him in the healing cottage."

Thyme clenched her jaw against a surge of anger. Morgan was only trying to get on her nerves. It was working wonderfully, but she wouldn’t give the little witch the satisfaction of knowing that. So she merely pasted a false smile on her lips and tossed back her raven hair. "He was quite seriously hurt. It took a long time to heal him," she replied sweetly. "Excuse us, if you please. I have not eaten yet, and I’m sure our guest is hungry…"

Morgan ignored her completely as she brushed past to move closer to Shael, who gazed down at her with something like amused curiosity, as though he was examining a playful kitten. Thyme suddenly felt a tiny spark of triumph. As beautiful as Morgan was, she was still, after all, only a human. Shael would not put up with her wiles for long. Thyme could get some satisfaction, at least, that Morgan would finally meet her match as far as arrogance was concerned. And maybe then she’d even learn some humility!

"So tell me, how was it that you came to be in the forest without anything to protect you?" Morgan was asking curiously.

Shael opened his mouth to reply, but Thyme hastily cut in, "He was robbed. He was on his way to the great city beyond the mountains, and bandits attacked him and stole all his money and clothes. They stabbed him when he tried to fight back." That was the most likely explanation, and she couldn’t trust Shael not to blurt out the truth, his faerie arrogance being what it was. On the other hand, she realized slyly, then he’d have to admit that he’d been bested by a mortal…and a girl, at that! No doubt he would not allow his pride to suffer that blow!

Shael was glaring at her with annoyance, but she ignored him and started off to the gathering hall, leaving him to either remain behind with his swarm of worshipers, or to follow. After a moment she heard light footsteps behind her, and felt his magical presence at her back. She couldn’t keep a slight smile from her lips. Apparently, even Shael was in no condition to deal with her cousin today.

The hall was crowded with villagers; it was near close to the noon meal, after all, and the noise was incredible. However, as soon as Shael set foot inside the domed building, all talking abruptly stopped, and silence descended upon the place as every eye turned to him. He raised his chin and stared back through keen eyes, not at all put out. Thyme rolled her eyes. He was probably glorying in all the attention, she thought disgustedly.

Old Willie was sitting at his usual chair by the fireplace, and they headed over to him. When Willie saw Shael he rose to his feet, something akin to awe crossing his features. He beckoned them over to an empty table in a corner, his eyes never leaving Shael’s face. The fae gave the old man a single, disdainful glance, and presumed to ignore him. Thyme gritted her teeth at Shael’s rude behavior.

"You wouldn’t treat the one who saved your life with such disdain, would you?" she hissed at him, tugging roughly on his sleeve. Shael glanced at her, surprised. "You are the one who saved my life," he reminded her.

"I had to have gotten that talisman from somewhere," she pointed out. "You may as well know, he’s the one who gave it to me. He got it from his grandfather, who received it from one of your kind; from Queen Mabb, herself, I think he said. For doing her a service. You might be a little grateful."

Clearly surprised, Shael turned eyes back to the man who stood before him, eyeing him critically. Willie stared back, then glanced at Thyme. "He’s a fae, right enough," he whispered. "One o’ them royalty kind. Prob’ly a prince. He’s got that look about ‘im."

Thyme turned to Shael, surprise written on her face. "Is that right?" she asked. "Are you a prince of the faerie kind?"

Shael shrugged unconcernedly. "Queen Mabb is my mother, if that’s what you mean," he replied haughtily. "I suppose you could say I am a prince. But then, most of the fae are royalty of some sort or other. We are all born of the same magic, which Mabb controls. I am her firstborn son, however. Which, I suppose, would make me the true prince of the throne of Faerie."

Thyme’s jaw dropped. "Were you ever gonna tell me this?" she hissed.

He smirked at her. "Why does it concern you?"

She glared at him. "Because I nearly killed and practically kidnapped the son of the Queen of Faerie, and you don’t think she’s gonna notice that?!" she nearly yelled, attracting the attention of several neighboring villagers. She bit her lip and forced herself to calm down. "What is Mabb going to do when she realizes that her son has not come home?" she muttered. "Send out her guards looking for you? Send warriors to attack my village to get you back? What?"

Shael waved a graceful hand. "Mabb has never concerned herself with me," he replied disdainfully. "If she sees that I am in trouble, she allows me to find my own way out of it. She has other things to worry about. Don’t worry. Your quaint little village is safe enough, I suppose."

"And that’s supposed to make me feel better?" Thyme growled. "Look, eat something, and then do what you have to do and get out of my village before anything happens, okay? Even if your people don’t care, my people are certainly going to realize what you are. I mean, look at you! You’re as different from us as a songbird is from a crow! And Old Willie here is not the only villager who’s been raised on tales of your kind. You need to watch out for Lily, too."

Old Willie snorted. "Lily, phaugh! That old banshee wouldn’t know a true fae if one came up and bit her on the nose!" he groused. Shael shot him a rather indignant glance, and he smiled an apology. "Lily lives in a shanty right inside the forest. She’s the self-proclaimed wise woman of the village, but she’s just plain crazy," he explained. "She ain’t no one ta worry about."

Thyme humphed. "All the same, she gives me the creeps, especially when she goes into one of her fits. I’d just as soon avoid her," she replied smartly.

Talk fell silent as a serving girl came to them to serve them their meal. She smiled shyly at Shael as she placed the wooden plate before him, and he smiled quite charmingly back at her, causing her to blush and hurry away with a giggle. Thyme rolled her eyes and pretended to ignore them, but she could feel Shael’s steady gaze rest on her. He knew that his flirting bothered her, she realized, and had to resist the urge to kick him for it.

"Well, well, well! What do we got here?"

The obnoxious bellow cut through the general noise of the hall like a honed knife, and Thyme closed her eyes and stifled a groan, pleading silently for Bronson to go crawl back under whatever rock he had emerged from. But it was not to be. The large bully swaggered over to the table, eyeing Shael up and down with all the interest of a hungry wolf eyeing dinner. He was drunk, Thyme noticed with disgust. Not that that was anything surprising.

"So who’re you supposed to be?" Bronson drawled, a smirk fixed on his ugly face as he looked Shael over. "Ain’t you the one what was found bare in the forest? Thyme here sure took her time fixing you up! Guess I can see why. She never could resist a pretty face! I bet you knew how to thank her properly, huh?" And he winked suggestively at a rather indignant-looking Shael.

Thyme gasped in outraged shock at that crude statement, not to mention his lie about her not resisting a pretty face, and leapt to her feet with her hands clenched at her sides. "You take that back, you snake," she hissed. "How dare you! You don’t have any right! Just ‘cause no woman in her right mind would ever take you to her bed…" She trailed off, mad enough to spit nails. Mostly because, as crude as Bronson was, he was also right. At least, insofar as Shael had tried to "thank her properly". Just goes to show that all men, no matter what race they’re from, always use their other ends to do their thinking for them! she thought disgustedly. Honestly! I wonder why they’re even born with brains in the first place!

While she was ranting to herself, Shael, in the meantime, had decided to take matters into his own hands. Without a word, he stood up, and with a movement like a striking viper, he had locked one hand around Bronson’s thick throat and hauled him off his feet, holding him in midair in a display of inhuman strength. Bronson’s eyes went positively wild with terror as he clawed at the slender hand that squeezed the breath from his throat, but the grip was like iron.

"Where I come from," Shael began coldly, "a man would never insult a lady’s virtue in such an uncouth manner. Women are to be treated with respect and gentleness. You will apologize to Thyme at once. Do you understand?" His golden eyes had turned silver with fury, as hard and cold as chips of flint. Bronson, the coward that he was, immediately nodded, and Shael’s grip loosened just enough to allow the heavier man to croak out a strangled "Sorry!" before he was dropped unceremoniously to the floor. His face going from bright red to white and back again, Bronson scrambled up and quickly hightailed it out of the hall, amid cheers and claps of those that had been watching the spectacle with unabashed curiosity.

Thyme, for her part, was staring at Shael with openmouthed astonishment, and she had to fight a hysterical giggle that attempted to escape when the fae prince had defended her honor…considering that he himself had been willing enough to take her virtue from her back in the hut! Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! she thought with a slight giggle, but managed to take a deep, calming breath just as his eyes found hers, now once again that burning gold. She smiled weakly. "I suppose you’ll be expecting a thank-you now," she grumbled good-naturedly. "I mean, I could’ve handled that creep myself, you know. I’m not some helpless maiden who can’t defend herself!"

A mocking grin touched his lips as his eyes sparkled wickedly. "This I have discovered very well for myself," he murmured, and she valiantly fought a losing battle to keep a fierce blush from her face, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

To cover her discomfiture, she sat down again and turned to her meal, ignoring the questioning glance Old Willie shot at her. Apparently he was curious about what had gone on in the hut, but was enough of a gentleman, at least, to keep his questions and opinions to himself. Shale, too, took his seat, and calmly began to eat his own meal, uttering not one word of complaint about what must have been a very simple repast to him, who was used to the best of everything, no doubt. Thyme appreciated the show of polite manners and smiled at him approvingly, and the three of them continued to eat in relative peace.