Skye didn’t know if it was Kheelan’s anger or the threat of the oncoming Phouka, but the creatures took off, still cackling and glancing back at them.
Kheelan pulled her toward a beat-up Ford truck twenty yards ahead. Almost there. Skye tried to ignore the pain in her leg as she sprinted to safety, eyes fixed on the truck. Only six yards to go when peppering burns erupted down the entire right side of her body. She screamed in fear and pain.
“Almost there,” Kheelan said, picking her up and carrying her. He flung open the passenger door, pushed her inside and then slammed it shut.
What had happened? The burning pricks of flesh itched and she clawed flesh, trying desperately to ease the agony. Through the haze of pain, she registered that Kheelan was peeling out of the parking lot in a loud screech of tires.
In the street, she felt the earth’s vibration increase. The truck shook violently.
Kheelan reached out, ran his fingers through her hair. “We’ll be okay now, they can’t hurt us with all this metal around us. How bad are you hurt?”
“Hospital.” She ground out the word from numb lips. The itching stopped, but was replaced by a tingling numbness down her side. She beat at the right leg in a panic, and felt nothing.
A block away from the library, Skye saw what was causing the ground to tremble. “What are all those horses doing in the middle of the road?”
Downtown Tuscaloosa teemed with what appeared, at first glance, to be a herd of wild mustangs galloping through Main Street. They plowed through cars, doing no damage to themselves or the vehicles. She searched the other driver’s faces and saw no signs of panic, no cars pulling over to the side of the road to let the creatures pass. They were invisible to everyone else.
They approached within a few yards of the Phouka and Skye forgot her pain as she stared into their infernal yellow eyes. When they passed through the herd unscathed, Skye breathed a sigh of relief.
Until Kheelan passed the Tuscaloosa Hospital.
“Stop. I need help.” She pointed to the hospital emergency entrance. “They did something to my leg and I can’t feel anything there.”
Kheelan grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “The doctors can’t help you. I’m taking you to my place for an antidote.”
“Antidote to what?” At least with the numbness, she could breathe again and talk. She continued rubbing her right arm and leg, trying to restore circulation.
“Elf shot.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. How serious is this elf shot?” She tried to put on a brave front, biting her lips to stop the trembling.
Kheelan kept his eyes on the road and hesitated.
“The truth,” Skye demanded.
“If they’re being especially vicious, the darts they fling at mortals can be dipped in poison. If you felt a burn, I suspect the worse.” He faced her, his jaw set with grim fury.
Skye answered as calmly as she could. “What’s the antidote?”
“I don’t know all the ingredients,” he admitted. “Annwynn, a former guardian, insists that our pantry stay stocked with a bottle of the stuff.”
Skye concentrated on the passing landscape. The paved streets with shops and residential housing gave way to a bumpy country road with thick groves of pine trees and oaks crowding its sides. At last Kheelan exited onto a winding dirt road, pulling up short in front of a small, old-fashioned cottage with one window aglow, like a watching eye. It reminded her of the fictional cottage that drew Hansel and Gretel. The gingerbread cuteness of this place might be deceptive.
Shaking off the image, Skye fumbled with the car latch, only to discover her right hand was useless. By the time she reached over with the left, Kheelan had already flung the door open. He picked her up quickly and ran into the house. Thankfully, no bad fairies lurked about the place.
“Where did they all go?”
“Enchantments protect us out here,” Kheelan explained. He deposited her on a worn couch and wrapped a chenille throw around her legs. “Let me get the antidote.”
When he left the room, Skye examined her arm and frowned at the little pinpricks of splinters that had torn through her jacket and were embedded in her skin. She pulled one out and studied it. No larger than a toothpick, it was jagged, as if stripped unprocessed from tree bark, the end of it sharp and covered with her blood.
Concentrate on something else. She took in her surroundings. It was scrupulously clean – which she appreciated – and somewhat sparse. There were no photographs or personal mementos anywhere, a true sign of a bachelor pad. The room was saved from a formal, austere atmosphere by blooming flowers scattered about. A fire blazed in the stone fireplace. The faint scent of herbs, flowers, and burning oak reminded her of her home in Piedmont. Rowena Watters would feel comfortable in this place.