She would fucking marry that gun if she could.
Instead, she’d had to pack it away with the rest of her possessions in order to make this trip. Her California concealed-carry permit meant nothing in the UK, where handguns, semiautomatics, and pump-action rifles were prohibited for most citizens. Sophie had a better chance of contracting malaria here than obtaining a firearm certificate.
As she changed, she kept a wary eye on the secluded Shropshire countryside, but nobody showed up to offer her a ride.
Naturally.
Because if they had, it would have made this too fucking easy. Fuck.
Finally she settled her bag across her body, messenger-style, grabbed a water bottle from the front passenger seat, and forced herself to put two of the small packages of nuts and crisps into the pocket of her jacket.
After she took a long pull of water from the bottle, she wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, then locked the car. Then she swung into a walk that would eat through the miles at an easy pace that her body could handle, heading down the road.
The tight ache in her right thigh eased as tired muscles loosened. Soon her stride turned loose and flowing, and the surrounding quiet began to sink in. The heat of the day had fled, leaving behind the growing chill of a cool summer evening. She felt almost as if she were swimming in pure, ageless golden sunlight.
She began to understand why Kathryn had said the Welsh Marches, or the area that bordered Wales and England, was some of the most mystical land in the world. Land magic wrapped around her, archaic and untamed. Crossover passages to Other lands existed somewhere nearby. Maybe several of them. Maybe even a lot of them.
Soaking it in, walking steadily, Sophie fell into a trance until what looked like the head of a dark mop trundled onto the road several yards ahead.
It just so happened, her trajectory along the edge of the road brought her closer to the wandering object. At first she thought it might be a badger, but when she drew closer, she discovered that wasn’t the case.
Huh. It really did look like the head of a dark mop, sort of all poufy and puffy, and roughly the same size.
It meandered down the middle of the road at a slow enough pace that she caught up with it without really wanting to or trying.
She wanted to ignore it and pass on by. She didn’t want to pay attention. That ambulatory mophead was a what the fuck she didn’t need to jot onto her list.
Angling out her jaw, she paused to look, first down the road in one direction, then behind her. Still no vehicle in sight—but that didn’t mean it would stay that way. This was deep country, and there weren’t any streetlamps. The road would get very dark after sunset.
The mophead was dark too. It wouldn’t show up well in a vehicle’s headlights. Her imagination did the rest.
“Shoo,” she told it. “Get off the road.”
One end of the mop appeared to lift up and turn in her direction. It approached unhurriedly.
Crossing her arms, she waited. When it got close enough, the starch in her knees gave out. In spite of herself, she squatted.
A small, bizarre face like a miniature Ewok’s blinked up at her from a mane of dirty, tangled hair. It had huge, bulbous eyes, one decidedly off-kilter, and a small, black button nose.
It was a walleyed Ewok.
It was… Was it a dog? Maybe it was a Pekinese or a Shih Tzu mix. It had dreadlocks embedded in hair that fell down to the ground. The matting was so pronounced she ground her teeth.
She held out her hand to it. “Don’t bite me,” she warned. “Or I’ll walk away from you without a second glance.”
The Ewok ambled closer. It sniffed at her, then nosed her fingers, the gentle touch so fleeting it was over before she knew it.
Aw, hell.
Her squat turned into a kneeling position. Carefully she patted the creature. When it drew closer and put a paw on her knee, she gently deepened the inspection.
Opposite the round head, a curly tail was embedded in the tangled filth, and yes, four legs were buried in that mess. The shape of the body felt like a dog’s. When she sank her fingers into the hair, she could feel the small curve of protruding ribs.
Fingering the matted hair around that ridiculous little face, she found two delicate flaps of ears. Maybe it wore a collar with a name and address, but at the thought of finding its owner, anger shook through her.
The dog was too small to survive long on its own in this kind of deserted countryside. The protruding ribs and the dreadlocks in its hair spoke of long-term neglect, even abuse.
As she pulled the dreadlocks apart to look for a collar, she found a knot of silvery rope, tied too tightly around the dog’s neck and broken at one trailing end. When she touched the rope, magic seared her fingers.
Muttering a curse, she recoiled. There was real, magic-sensitive silver wound into the rope, and it was bound with some kind of broken incantation that still held enough cruel Power to raise reddened welts on the ends of her fingers.
If it did that to her skin, what was it doing to the dog’s neck?
Suddenly this what the fuck shot to the top of her long list. Her anger turned into a deep, fierce rage.
“Okay, little guy.” She kept her rage out of her quiet voice. “You haven’t bitten me yet. Hold still. I’m going to get this off you.”
The dog sat on the pavement, blinking up at her, almost as if it knew what she was saying.
Digging into her bag, she pulled out her pair of nail clippers and set to work. Although she knew she had to be hurting it, the dog never moved, nor did it appear to flinch.
Despite the broken incantation, the knot in the rope seemed to twist and slide away from her efforts like a live creature while cold pain seared her fingers. She spat out a null spell to negate the magic.
Instead, she’d had to pack it away with the rest of her possessions in order to make this trip. Her California concealed-carry permit meant nothing in the UK, where handguns, semiautomatics, and pump-action rifles were prohibited for most citizens. Sophie had a better chance of contracting malaria here than obtaining a firearm certificate.
As she changed, she kept a wary eye on the secluded Shropshire countryside, but nobody showed up to offer her a ride.
Naturally.
Because if they had, it would have made this too fucking easy. Fuck.
Finally she settled her bag across her body, messenger-style, grabbed a water bottle from the front passenger seat, and forced herself to put two of the small packages of nuts and crisps into the pocket of her jacket.
After she took a long pull of water from the bottle, she wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, then locked the car. Then she swung into a walk that would eat through the miles at an easy pace that her body could handle, heading down the road.
The tight ache in her right thigh eased as tired muscles loosened. Soon her stride turned loose and flowing, and the surrounding quiet began to sink in. The heat of the day had fled, leaving behind the growing chill of a cool summer evening. She felt almost as if she were swimming in pure, ageless golden sunlight.
She began to understand why Kathryn had said the Welsh Marches, or the area that bordered Wales and England, was some of the most mystical land in the world. Land magic wrapped around her, archaic and untamed. Crossover passages to Other lands existed somewhere nearby. Maybe several of them. Maybe even a lot of them.
Soaking it in, walking steadily, Sophie fell into a trance until what looked like the head of a dark mop trundled onto the road several yards ahead.
It just so happened, her trajectory along the edge of the road brought her closer to the wandering object. At first she thought it might be a badger, but when she drew closer, she discovered that wasn’t the case.
Huh. It really did look like the head of a dark mop, sort of all poufy and puffy, and roughly the same size.
It meandered down the middle of the road at a slow enough pace that she caught up with it without really wanting to or trying.
She wanted to ignore it and pass on by. She didn’t want to pay attention. That ambulatory mophead was a what the fuck she didn’t need to jot onto her list.
Angling out her jaw, she paused to look, first down the road in one direction, then behind her. Still no vehicle in sight—but that didn’t mean it would stay that way. This was deep country, and there weren’t any streetlamps. The road would get very dark after sunset.
The mophead was dark too. It wouldn’t show up well in a vehicle’s headlights. Her imagination did the rest.
“Shoo,” she told it. “Get off the road.”
One end of the mop appeared to lift up and turn in her direction. It approached unhurriedly.
Crossing her arms, she waited. When it got close enough, the starch in her knees gave out. In spite of herself, she squatted.
A small, bizarre face like a miniature Ewok’s blinked up at her from a mane of dirty, tangled hair. It had huge, bulbous eyes, one decidedly off-kilter, and a small, black button nose.
It was a walleyed Ewok.
It was… Was it a dog? Maybe it was a Pekinese or a Shih Tzu mix. It had dreadlocks embedded in hair that fell down to the ground. The matting was so pronounced she ground her teeth.
She held out her hand to it. “Don’t bite me,” she warned. “Or I’ll walk away from you without a second glance.”
The Ewok ambled closer. It sniffed at her, then nosed her fingers, the gentle touch so fleeting it was over before she knew it.
Aw, hell.
Her squat turned into a kneeling position. Carefully she patted the creature. When it drew closer and put a paw on her knee, she gently deepened the inspection.
Opposite the round head, a curly tail was embedded in the tangled filth, and yes, four legs were buried in that mess. The shape of the body felt like a dog’s. When she sank her fingers into the hair, she could feel the small curve of protruding ribs.
Fingering the matted hair around that ridiculous little face, she found two delicate flaps of ears. Maybe it wore a collar with a name and address, but at the thought of finding its owner, anger shook through her.
The dog was too small to survive long on its own in this kind of deserted countryside. The protruding ribs and the dreadlocks in its hair spoke of long-term neglect, even abuse.
As she pulled the dreadlocks apart to look for a collar, she found a knot of silvery rope, tied too tightly around the dog’s neck and broken at one trailing end. When she touched the rope, magic seared her fingers.
Muttering a curse, she recoiled. There was real, magic-sensitive silver wound into the rope, and it was bound with some kind of broken incantation that still held enough cruel Power to raise reddened welts on the ends of her fingers.
If it did that to her skin, what was it doing to the dog’s neck?
Suddenly this what the fuck shot to the top of her long list. Her anger turned into a deep, fierce rage.
“Okay, little guy.” She kept her rage out of her quiet voice. “You haven’t bitten me yet. Hold still. I’m going to get this off you.”
The dog sat on the pavement, blinking up at her, almost as if it knew what she was saying.
Digging into her bag, she pulled out her pair of nail clippers and set to work. Although she knew she had to be hurting it, the dog never moved, nor did it appear to flinch.
Despite the broken incantation, the knot in the rope seemed to twist and slide away from her efforts like a live creature while cold pain seared her fingers. She spat out a null spell to negate the magic.
