The Urban Fantasy Anthology (Peter S. Beagle) (Kitty Norville 1.50)

Or they could just kill me.

I sit straighter and stare at them, waiting for I don’t know what. My sentence to be pronounced, I suppose. But I won’t go without a fight.

I look around and reach for a branch that’s lying on the stone nearby. I make myself get up—will the shaking in my legs to stop. When I’m sure I have my balance, I break the branch against my knee. That gives me two small clubs with which to defend myself.

The snap is loud in the night. Edric and the fairy court turn in my direction. I can see the queen frowning from where I stand, but then she lifts her arm. I stiffen and try to psyche myself for the attack I’m sure she’s about to command. But when she brings her hand down, the whole fairy court simply vanishes and the woods are plunged into night.

It takes my eyes a long moment to adjust to the darkness again. When they do, I can’t see Edric anymore. I have the sudden thought that I’ve just dreamed the whole thing. Any moment I’ll wake up—back home, in my own bed—and everything will be back to normal. But then I hear a scuffling on the rock below. I step closer to the edge and see Edric working his way up a switchback to the top of the ridge.

There are only three turns—the ridge is no more than twenty-or-so feet high. I step back from the edge when he comes into view, my clubs held out in front of me. The light’s poor, even with the bright moonshine coming down through the trees, but I know he sees me. Sees what I’m holding.

“Mary,” he says.

I glare at him.

“So, what did she tell you to do?” I demand. “Are you supposed to try to kill me?”

He shakes his head. I can’t read his features.

“Nothing like that,” he says.

“Yeah, right.”

Neither of us say anything for a long moment.

“Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?” he finally asks.

“Why did you have to have secrets?”

“I was under a geas,” he says. “Do you know what that means?”

I nod. “Some kind of old promise or something.”

“I wasn’t allowed to tell you. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. It was like…like a fairy tale, you know? Like Bluebeard’s room.”

“Oh, that’s a great example,” I say, “considering he turned out to be some kind of serial killer freak. And if we’re going to use folklore as an ethical barometer, what about all those sailor boys who are gone seven years, but then come back and try to trick their loyal girlfriends with some sleazy pick-up shtick?”

“Okay, you’re right. What I mean is—”

“Who are you?”

“We’re of the sidhe.”

“She who? What’s that supposed to mean? Are you talking about that woman on the horse?”

He shakes his head. “Sidhe,” he repeats and spells it out for me. “They’re one of the elfin races.”

“Elfin.”

“As in pixies, fairies…”

“And you’re one of them?”

He nods.

“I guess this is a whole new twist on having your boyfriend come out of the closet to tell you he’s a fairy.” I think about it for a moment, then add, “Is this why you never wanted to have kids?”

He nods again.