They’d taken I-90 west out of Missoula, Montana, and turned south onto Petty Creek Road, driving through Lolo National Forest. Night fell early this far north, and the cold was getting to the point that even the SUV’s heater wasn’t enough.
“The turnoff is coming up.”
The quiet in the vehicle lasted another five minutes before the particular recognition of fae magic pricked against Patrick’s shields. The bright headlights illuminated a break in the trees up ahead that he knew most people would never see.
“Turn right in about ten meters.”
To his credit, Jono didn’t question him, despite it probably seeming like he was about to drive them into the nearest tree. Jono turned the steering wheel to the right, and the SUV passed harmlessly through a shroud of magic that glinted at the edge of Patrick’s vision. Gerard sucked in a sharp breath from the rear seat but didn’t say anything.
The headlights led the way over a bumpy path that couldn’t be called a road and was barely wide enough for a modern vehicle. Tree branches scraped the sides and roof, and Patrick winced, thinking about the damage to the rental. At least he wouldn’t be the one paying for it.
Jono slammed on the brakes ten minutes later as flickers of light erupted from the trees, dancing through the headlight beams. The seat belt dug into Patrick’s chest, and he pulled at it to unlock it.
“Pixies,” Órlaith said. “They’re harmless.”
“I don’t know about that,” Gerard muttered. “They’re biting little fuckers.”
Patrick snorted out a laugh. “Aren’t they distant cousins of yours?”
“Shut your mouth.”
Jono stepped on the gas again and drove forward. “I think I’d like them more if I wasn’t afraid they’d splatter on the windshield.”
The pixies led the way, more flying through the trees to dart ahead and illuminate the path. They came in a variety of colors, their wings leaving shimmering trails in the dark that slowly faded. Patrick squinted through the dark, watching as the pixies up ahead seemed to suddenly vanish.
“Keep driving,” Patrick said.
Jono nodded and kept a firm grip on the wheel. Patrick folded up the paper map and shoved it in the glove compartment. They didn’t need it anymore.
The SUV passed through the shielding encasing the safe house, and they drove into a winter wonderland.
Witchlights sparkled above, fighting the stars for the night sky. Three large wooden cabins were clustered in a small clear area on top of the low hill they drove up. The doors were closed, but warm light shone out the windows, the shine glimmering through icicles hanging from the siding.
A bonfire had been lit in the clearing the three cabins surrounded. Figures huddled around the fire, some small, some larger, many of them holding sticks in the fire. Patrick watched as one pulled their stick out of the flame, pulling at the glob of white at the end and stuffing it in their mouth.
The SUV’s headlights cut across the bonfire, and heads snapped around. In the light, Patrick got a glimpse of strangely colored eyes, sharp-featured faces, and skin of various coloring that would never be normal for a human.
Jono carefully braked to a halt as some of the taller figures swiftly gathered up the smaller ones, ushering them toward the cabins.
“What is this place?” Jono asked.
“A safe house for changelings,” Patrick said.
“It was our home,” Gerard said quietly.
Jono killed the engine, and Patrick undid his seat belt. He pushed open the door and got out, boots sinking into the snow. He was dressed for winter, and the heat charms set into his clothes should have kept the cold at bay, but fae magic was tricky. Everywhere that wasn’t covered by Órlaith’s ward in his jacket started to lose warmth.
The changeling children running through the snow abruptly stopped as the door to the largest cabin opened on silent hinges. The woman who stood framed in the doorway was tall, with wide shoulders and hips, her thick, orange-red hair falling to her waist in a riot of messy curls. She wore snow pants and a parka, though the spear in her hand was anything but modern.
Gerard made a wounded sound in the back of his throat, silver eyes shocked wide in his face. “Scáthach.”
“Welcome back, Cú Chulainn,” Scáthach said, her Scottish accent so thick it was like walking down a street in Glasgow.
“What…how are you here?”
“Someone needed to look after thebairnsthat no one wanted.”
The children had stopped running, with one or two creeping back toward the bonfire, sticks in hand. One of them clutched a half-empty bag of marshmallows, her companion carrying a bag of Hershey’s chocolate bars. The lure of s’mores overtook escape now that it seemed Patrick and the others weren’t the enemy.
