Page 92 of Crown of the Fae King

For all the buildings and houses, however, the streets were surprisingly empty. A few pedestrians hurried in the opposite direction when we drove by. A few cars with suspicious, frowning drivers. The place looked deserted, like those early days of the pandemic of 2020.

I stared down a woman getting into her car. “Looks like everyone skipped town.”

“Aye. Quiet compared to my last visit. Glad they seemed to have heeded my warnin’. Usually, I see a parade of twins on the promenade.”

Promenade? I laughed to myself. It was something an eighty-year-old would say.

“So…where is this tunnel?”

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Back against the hill.”

“And where does it come out again?”

“On Ross lands, other side of the mountain. My actual granddaughters…from my earlier life… and their husbands are custodians, ye might say. No one getting’ inside from their end either.”

“Is there a castle or something, where the Grandfather is supposed to live?”

“Just a house. A laird’s house is not always grand. Though now, I see how unbefitting it seems for a man old enough to know the King of the Fae.” He pointed to a pale house covered in dark slats. It looked like it had been transplanted from some Shakespeare play. “There ‘tis.”

The front yard was gravel, like a broad parking lot. The only thing living and green were the box hedges, though they were dark and might have been frozen from the winter. Snow still clung to the roots.

Wickham slowed as we passed. I imagined he saw memories playing out.

The massive front door swung open and two long-haired old women stumbled out and headed for the truck with their arms outstretched. We’d been dropped into the middle of a zombie movie!

Wickham watched them come, like a couple of friendly dogs. But when they got within ten feet, he hit the gas.

My adrenaline pumping, I swung my arm and whacked his shoulder. “Why did you do that? I almost peed my pants!”

He snickered.

I sat forward and caught my breath. “What were they?”

“Just a pair of mortals.”

“Shouldn’t they be separated?”

“I dinnae care what they do.”

“They’re not witches?”

“Not anymore.”

I didn’t like his sudden change in personality, so I changed the subject. “So where to?”

“The Sorenson Witch.”

“Not a Muir?”

“Nay. She’s the woman to whom the Muirs go when the Grandfather is no help. I reckon she’s been busy of late.”

“You talking about you, or the last guy?”

“Both.”

“So…a witch’s witch?”

“Exactly. She’ll turn us in the right direction.”

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