“Let us begin then,” he said, placing her in the chair and pulling the buckles tight across her wrists. “I do not hold your words against you, Jordan. You should speak freely,” he insisted, his mouth so close to her ear as he cinched the final strap that all she heard was the rasp of his words. “Yes, Jordan, if thoughts or words well up in you, you should always speak freely. Or, better yet—scream.”


On the Road from Philadelphia

It was Rowen who suggested he stand guard at the river’s edge, letting the horses drink from the shallowest part of the water. “Perhaps we should head directly to Holgate. When Jordan is cleared of these charges, she will need someone to bring her home.”

Jonathan kept his head down, settling Silver’s mane with the brush he’d wisely packed into the saddlebags. “That is a good point, young sir. And as good a direction to head as any.” He tugged at Silver’s ear and the horse flicked it and whinnied good-naturedly. “You could be Miss Jordan’s escort—if not her hero,” Jonathan teased.

“I’m only hero material if your cousin Frederick includes me in his fiction,” Rowen mused darkly.

“There is more hero to you than I think you’ve ever imagined,” Jonathan said, pausing in Silver’s grooming to look across the horse’s back to Rowen. “I tend to believe, if you will indulge me a moment, that a man can never be disproven of heroism unless he fails when pushed to perform. Untested, who knows? You, friend”—the word choice was not lost on Rowen—”have only now begun to be pushed. To be tested. Your potential is yet unglimpsed. There is the stuff of legends within you. Of that I am sure.”

Rowen looked away. “So we head to Holgate.”

“Yes. And you consider that you might yet be Miss Jordan’s hero. She is a damsel in distress. What is more worthy a hero’s task than to be a knight in shining armor for a damsel?”

Rowen laughed. Rudely.

Jonathan was not amused. “Consider that you might be the happily ever after to her currently tragic tale.”

Rowen mumbled something devoid of commitment and said, “You read too much fiction.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps. If I am to be her hero—the happily ever after to her currently tragic tale—then I must say you are a good part of that story. This madness is all made more bearable by the assistance of a fine friend such as yourself. A fine friend is just as important as a fine woman in having a true happily ever after.”

Jonathan snorted. “You might disagree with your current sentiment if you spend more time with Miss Jordan. Unchaperoned.”

Rowen blinked and then burst out laughing. “Perhaps!”

They didn’t hear, see, or smell it until it was on top of Jonathan, its broad flipper hands catching his head and twisting his neck with a crunch so loud Silver bolted as Jonathan crumpled to the ground, the Merrow sinking down with him.

Rowen shouted and fired a shot, but the Merrow sprang away, using its slick tail as a coil and propelling itself after Silver as he streaked into the woods.

Ransom’s nostrils flared, ears flattening against his skull as his lips pulled back from his bright white teeth. Rowen reloaded and watched the tree line as he stumbled over bits of river debris on his way to Jonathan. He didn’t dare go to his knees, didn’t dare turn his back to either the woods or the water as he crouched to check his friend for signs of life.

It took but a moment.

“Damn it!” Rowen shouted, rising. “Damn it all to Hell—it’s not supposed to happen this way!” He headed into the woods, hunting for the Merrow that couldn’t be too far ahead. He stopped, hearing noise behind him.

Ransom blew a burst of hot air out his nose, nearly baking Rowen’s face.

“Didn’t want to be left behind, did you?” Rowen asked, sparing a quick touch for the horse. “Me neither.” He stepped to his steed’s side and climbed into the saddle, mindful of the loaded pistol. “Let’s us go and see just where our slimy little friend got to, shall we? I have a bullet with his name on it.” He nudged Ransom forward with his heels, watching for any signs of either horse or the Merrow’s passage. Plants bent a different way than the rest or stems or branches broken—all were telltale signs of movement. As was the sudden noise of a terrified horse’s scream.

Rowen kicked Ransom forward and the horse barely even flicked an ear at being commanded into danger instead of being directed away from it. They plunged through the brush and thin briars lining the already torn pathway, bolting toward the source of the sound.

Ahead of them Silver stood and stamped, his eyes rolling and head lowered, focusing on something low to the ground and obscured by the bushes before them. They crashed through the last bit of brush and came to a sliding stop beside the horse, their haunches touching.

Silver broke free of his staring contest with the Merrow for a moment and Rowen lowered his pistol and took a shot.

The Merrow squealed and flew backward through the brambles as fast as if the bullet carried it. This time they tracked it the whole way from the noise alone and Rowen struggled to reload his gun as Ransom carried him after the beast to finish it off, leaving Silver back in the thicket. He would avenge his best friend, escort the damsel, and put things to rights in Philadelphia.

Blackpowder spilled from Rowen’s powder flask and his wadding was a sloppy job at best. But he dropped in the lead and rammed it home and was ready when they burst back to the river’s edge.

At least he had thought himself ready.

At the water’s edge three more Merrow crouched, petting and cooing to soothe their wounded comrade as they stuffed his wound with the gooey growth that always tangled Rowen’s line when he dared to go down to the Below’s dockside and fish.

They looked up at him, sitting there on top of his beautiful horse, and they gnashed their impossibly large teeth, drooling.

“Damn it,” Rowen repeated, letting Ransom dance backward beneath him. “I am fairly certain this is also not supposed to happen … I want my damned happily ever after!” He reached down and loosened the sword at his side and then, refocusing on his gun, took aim and fired.

The blow knocked a Merrow back into the water in a splash of blood. Something moved just below the surface, causing ripples and then another ripple, and another, as spines circled the rising blood in the river and then, in a furious fit of splashing water and high-pitched wailing the waters frothed with foam and blood as the Merrow tore each other apart.

Ransom carried Rowen another long slow step backward as Rowen reloaded and fired.

The Merrow shifted, anticipating his shot, but the ramrod sliced through one of them, launched from the pistol’s barrel in Rowen’s haste, and flew like a spear into the water beyond as the bullet went wide and grazed the other.

The remaining Merrow snapped their jaws together, teeth clicking wetly as saliva dripped and they scurried forward, propelled by their coiling and then stretching tails. They leaped at Ransom and Rowen swung his pistol like a club, connecting with a sickening sound with the skull of one of the Merrow and knocking it to the ground, unconscious and bleeding.

Distantly Rowen wondered if they’d drag that one down into the swirling waters for a fleshy feast, too, and he cursed and freed his sword, slashing wildly as the Merrow dug claws into Ransom’s flank and he squealed like a hog at slaughter.

He bucked and Rowen flew from the saddle, landing hard. Catching his breath and climbing to his feet, Rowen watched the prize stallion whip his spine so loosely that it seemed he had no bones in his back at all. His adversaries flew free of him, unable to maintain a grip with tail, tooth, or claw and Ransom spun on his hooves and, with one quick look at Rowen, bolted back into the dry cover of the woods they’d just come from.

Rowen stood his ground, slashing out with his blade and retreating into the woods the way Ransom had gone, his eyes on the snarling and still advancing Merrow, his last glimpse of the best friend he’d ever had the lifeless body at the river’s edge, the waters lapping at his side.

Far past the fringe of the forest, nearer to its light-dappled heart, the Merrow gave up the chase and slunk back to the relative safety of the river. They’d slip downstream soon, seeking saltier water.

When he was certain they intended no ambush, Rowen bent over to catch his breath, his sword quivering in his grip. He willed himself to release the weapon and watched it fall to the ground with detached interest. He set down his pistol and began to rub feeling back into his right hand. He crouched by his weapons, stretching and flexing and checking himself for wounds. His beautiful pants were ruined now, covered in dirt, Merrow slime, and blood. He tugged a small briar branch out of one leg and winced as the thorns pulled out.

But beyond all the small indignities of battle—the dirt, the grime, and the blood—was the loss.

He turned back toward the distant river and the place where Jonathan had gone down.

If he’d had any doubt before about going swiftly to Holgate to find Jordan, it was as gone as Jonathan’s life. Jordan was his last remaining close friend. Jonathan had not abandoned Rowen in the time of his greatest need, so neither would he abandon her in hers.

“Damn it,” he repeated for good measure. He stood, shook out each of his limbs, and rolled his head to stretch out the pinch of tension in his neck. He rubbed his face, surprised when his fingers came away damp. “Damn it,” he said again, this time the words but a whisper. He picked up his sword once more, slipped the empty pistol into his belt, and peered up through the overlapping canopy of thick leaves to try and find the sun. He decided he would again match his path to its own once he recovered the horses.