Page 18 of The Rebel Seer

“Then what are they looking for? Perhaps you could call them off and introduce yourself.” The king sounds irritated. “Is this the way Arawn treats his hosts?”

“Are you our hosts? I should also ask if you can truly be considered a king at this point,” the really, really old chick asks. She’s dressed in all black, the color making her hair look stark against it. She wears her white hair in thick braids. She points the king’s way, long nails forming what looks like talons. “From what I can tell, you don’t have a crown anymore, Daniel Donovan. And you have no real ties to my people.”

“Oh, but I do,” the queen says, moving so she can face the woman.

No. That’s not what she should be called. I might not have met all the supernatural creatures of the world, but I did take classes. This is a crone. Maybe a hag. I’m hoping for a crone.

She stills for a moment, and then her head drops. “Your Grace.”

It must be good to have all those titles. Makes it easier to pivot when one doesn’t do the trick.

I wonder if the crone can sense the Drowning Woman, who stands right beside her, menace pouring from her form.

“Yes,” the queen says. “I am the high priest’s goddess, and I would like to know why Arawn would send his hounds to hunt us. I would also like to know your name and why he didn’t come himself.”

“The hounds will calm down when you allow yr un sanctaidd to greet them,” the woman says, standing behind the largest of the hounds. “My name is Mallt-y-nos. You can call me Matilda. I serve the King of Annwn.”

See, here is where my dead translator would be helpful, but apparently Matilda is considered alive because I got nothing.

“The Sacred One?” the king asks. “Who are you talking about? Is this being in the bookstore? We have no one from Annwn among our people.”

“Yr un sanctaidd is of the world. Is more than ours. She belongs to the world. Mae hi y llwybr i dragwyddoldeb,” Matilda says, her voice even deeper than before. Like it’s coming from someplace inside her. “My invitation is for her, though you are welcome.”

“Danny, I think she’s talking about Shahidi,” the queen says, turning my way.

The dogs growl and move in closer when the queen takes my hand.

“I don’t understand Welsh.” I’m confused, and I don’t have a handy ghost translator. Although the ones I would likely find here wouldn’t help me. I doubt there are a bunch of dead Welsh tourists hanging around.

The queen lets my hand go and steps slightly back. The dogs stop growling. “I don’t either, but she’s an emissary from a dead land, sweetie. You can talk to the dead.”

Matilda frowns, deepening the wrinkles and crevasses of her face. “You make light of her. Or you don’t understand her.”

“She says you’re the path to eternity,” the king explains. “Mallt-y-nos, you need to understand I consider this young woman a daughter, and if you harm her, I will find a way to make your slice of hell even worse.”

The crone’s brow rises. “How little you know, Your Highness. But your ignorance is none of my concern. If you will allow my hounds to assure themselves yr un sanctaidd is safe, I think you will find they will calm and we can have a talk.”

“What do you want, Shy?” the king asks. “We can back off and let you handle this or we can fight here and now. I’m perfectly happy to do that. I think I can handle some hellhounds.”

“No, it’s fine.” For some reason I don’t think they’re here to hurt me. And I would love to know why she thinks I’m some sort of gateway to eternity. I’m just the chick who tries to get dead folk to walk into the light.

“We’ll be right here,” Neil promises as he moves to the steps again. “And I assure you I will change if I need to. Jeans be damned.”

The queen is the last to join them, and then I am surrounded by three hellhounds.

It’s not my first time around dogs. My family kept several along with cats. It is the stupidest thing, but I’m kind of following my instincts here. I put a hand out to the largest, palm down, to allow him to catch my scent. Or take my hand off with those insanely sharp choppers of his.

I hear the queen’s deep intake of breath as I offer my hand.

The hound takes a sniff and then makes a huffing sound, and I find myself surrounded by bouncy, happy hellhounds. They change utterly from snarling death machines to puppies who want attention. I find myself on my ass, laughing and trying to not let them lick my mouth.

“Hey, guys, you are very sweet,” I say as they start to settle down.

“I told you they would be fine once they knew she was all right,” Matilda says, walking toward me.

The Drowning Woman stays where she is.

Matilda moves in front of me and bows formally. “Un sanctaidd, my king wishes to meet with you. If you will allow me and my hounds to escort you to the Faery plane, we can be on our way.”

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