Page 72 of Beyond the Cottage

“Do you know where she comes from?”

“I know as much about her history as you do. In the swamp, we let people keep their secrets.”

She returned to the letter. “Listen to this:My warmest regards to your becursed friend, Gretta. Remind him he’s got power and money, and two out of three ain’t bad!” She lowered the paper. “Is she mocking Nat?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. Once he gets his hands on her, her clever wit won’t do any good.”

So Gretta intended to continue the hunt? If so, his money was on Isobel. Gretta was tenacious, but Isobel had too many advantages, including a stash of pixie dust and a head start. She’d likely be in a different province by the time he got Gretta to Antrelle.

They approached the prison landing, and she hopped out, leaving him to stash the boat under a tree. He trailed behind her, following the short path to the compound.

He abruptly stopped.

Two figures stood by the door, one tall, the other gigantic. Gretta cried out and ran toward them. The massive figurestepped from the shadows and scooped her into his tree trunk arms.

What thehellwas a troll doing there? And why was Gretta clinging to him like a goddamn sloth? She kissed the bastard’s cheek, and the last wisps of Ansel’s good mood evaporated.

“Gretta,” he said when he reached her. “Who are they?”

The less enormous figure left the shadows. A dark red cloak concealed his face, but his hands looked human. One had a small bird tattoo between the thumb and forefinger. He stepped in front of Gretta as if to shield her.

Ansel hated him on sight.

“Gretta,” the cloaked man said. “Who the fuck is he? And what happened to your face?”

She waved her hand. “It wasn’t him. What took you so long to find me?”

The troll gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, and Ansel wanted to rip off the arm that touched her.

“I couldn’t pick up your scent until the storm cleared the air,” the troll said. He turned to Ansel. “Do you run this operation? We’ve spoken to the pixies, so I recommend an honest answer.”

His tone sounded more reasonable that the other man’s, and despite his size, his posture didn’t suggest aggression. He wore no weapons over his plain clothes, and his sage-brown hair was conservatively cropped. He hardly resembled Ansel’s idea of a troll.

Except for the fangs. And his skin—it was the dusky color of juniper needles.

“He asked you a question,” the cloaked man said.

“Yes, I run this operation. And before you ask, I’m also the one who held Gretta captive.” There was no point in hiding it, since she certainly wouldn’t.

Metal scraped as the cloaked man unsheathed a long, vicious blade. He pressed the tip to Ansel’s heart, flooding it with adrenaline.

Ansel swatted the knife away, and it resettled at his neck. He balled his fists and considered smashing one into whatever lay under that hood.

Gretta pulled the man back.

“Ansel, this is Philip,” she said, jerking her head at the cloaked man. “That’s Brand.”

He’d ask what they were doing there, but why bother? Clearly, Gretta was being rescued.

When Philip stalked closer, Ansel held his ground. They were about matched in height and weight. It had been years since he’d gotten into a good brawl, but he liked his chances if the asshole put the knife away and fought him square.

“This podunk operation is finished,” Philip said. “Amuse me with a reason why I shouldn’t spill your entrails where you stand.”

“We should bring him to the police,” Brand said.

Ansel’s palm craved the pistol hidden in his office. He’d cheerfully take this Philip on with fists, but he wasn’t about to tangle with a troll unarmed.

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