Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 151630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 758(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 758(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
“They don’t belong to Myrddin.” The queen sounds worried, too, but then I would be worried if she wasn’t. “They belong to Arawn. There are some bonds not even Myrddin can break. They’re not of this plane, nor of the Hell plane, so Myrddin shouldn’t be able to influence them.”
“The dude who used to be involved with Nim?” Neil joins our circle. “Good puppy. You don’t want to eat me. I’m gamey. Go for the vamp.”
“Thanks a lot,” the king says. “And yes, they belong to Arawn, the asshole Welsh King of the Dead. I say that because the fucker drained me once. He fed off my magic because it got him high. Only Bris was able to save me. Why would he send his hounds?”
“Maybe he’s looking for Nim,” the queen offers. “They were involved, and it wasn’t his idea to break up.”
“But that was over ten years ago,” Neil argues.
“He’s a god.” The king keeps shifting us around, shuffling in a circle like he’s waiting for one to pounce. “I assure you a couple of decades are like giving his girlfriend some time to cool off. But why not come himself if he’s worried?”
“We can take you to Nimue,” Neil offers, and then his voice goes low. “How do we get a bunch of crazy-looking hellhounds all the way across the country? I don’t think we should take them through the portal. Is there an Uber?”
“Also, how upset will they be since best-case scenario she’s starting to grow her legs back,” the queen points out. “I don’t know how much they understand. We didn’t do it. Could we sic them on Myrddin?”
“I don’t think they want an escort,” the king growls. “If he wants to find Nimue, he should simply send a representative who won’t try to kill us.”
“They are not looking for Nimue, Your Highness,” a deep, feminine voice says. She sounds like a pack-a-day smoker for maybe three hundred years. “Though I assure you my king feels her absence.”
Then I get a look at her and raise that estimate up. Like three thousand maybe.
“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.”