“Ah!” Finnbheara debated a pensive moment. He didn’t have to lift a finger and the Hawk would soon die.
But it wasn’t enough, he seethed. Finnbheara wanted his own hand in the Hawk’s destruction. He had suffered personal insult, and he wanted an intimately personal revenge. No mortal man cuckolded the King of the Fairy, without divine retribution—and how divine it would feel to destroy the Hawk.
The glimmer of an idea began to take shape in his mind. As he considered it, King Finnbheara felt more vital than he had in centuries.
The fool didn’t miss the smug smile that teased the King’s lips.
“You’re thinking something wicked. What are you planning, my liege?” the fool asked.
“Silence,” King Finnbheara commanded. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he sifted through his options, carefully refining his scheme.
If time passed while Finnbheara plotted, neither fairy noticed; time meant little to the race of beings who could move about in it at will. The first flames of dawn painted the sky above the sea when the King spoke again:
“Has the Hawk ever loved?”
“Loved?” the fool echoed blankly.
“You know, that emotion for which mortals compose sonnets, fight wars, erect monuments,” the King said dryly.
The fool reflected a moment. “I would say no, my King. The Hawk has never wooed a woman he didn’t win, nor does it appear he ever desired any special woman over another.”
“A woman has never denied him?” King Finnbheara asked with a trace of incredulity.
“Not that I could find. I don’t think the woman lives and breathes in the sixteenth century who could deny him. I’m telling you, the man’s a legend. Women swoon over him.”
The King smiled avariciously. “I have another errand for you, fool.”
“Anything, my liege. Let me kill him.”
“No! There will be no blood spilled by our hand. Listen to me carefully. Go now through the centuries. Go forward—women are more independent and self-possessed there. Find me a woman who is irresistible, exquisite, intelligent, strong; one who knows her own mind. Bid you well, she must be a woman who won’t lose her wits being tossed through time, she must be adaptable to strange events. It wouldn’t do to bring her to him and have her brain addled. She must believe in a bit of magic.”
The fool nodded. “Too true. Remember that tax accountant we took back to the twelfth century? She turned into a raving lunatic.”
“Exactly. The woman you find must be somewhat inured to the unusual so she can accept time travel without coming undone.” Finnbheara mulled this over a moment. “I have it! Look in Salem, where they still believe in witches, or perhaps New Orleans, where the ancient magic sizzles in the air.”
“Perfect places!” the fool enthused.
“But most important, fool, you must find me a woman who harbors a special hatred for beautiful, womanizing men; a woman guaranteed to make that mortal’s life a living hell.”
The fool smiled fiendishly. “May I embellish on your plan?”
“You’re a crucial part of it,” the King said with sinister promise.
Adrienne de Simone shivered, although it was an unusually warm May evening in Seattle. She pulled a sweater over her head and tugged the French doors closed. She stared out through the glass and watched night descend over the gardens that tumbled in wild disarray beyond the walk.
In the fading light she surveyed the stone wall that protected her house at 93 Coattail Lane, then turned her methodical scrutiny to the shadows beneath the stately oaks, seeking any irregular movement. She took a deep breath and ordered herself to relax. The guard dogs that patrolled the grounds were quiet—things must be safe, she assured herself firmly.
Inexplicably tense, she entered the code on the alarm pad that would activate the motion detectors strategically mounted throughout the one-acre lawn. Any nonrandom motion over one hundred pounds in mass and three feet in height would trigger the detectors, although the shrill warning would not summon the police or any law enforcement agency.
Adrienne would run for her gun before she’d run for a phone. She’d summon the devil himself before she’d dream of calling the police. Although six months had passed, Adrienne still felt as if she couldn’t get far enough from New Orleans, not even if she moved across an ocean or two, which she couldn’t do anyway; the percentage of fugitives apprehended while trying to leave the country was shockingly high.
Was that what she really was? she marveled. It never failed to astonish her, even after all these months. How could she—Adrienne de Simone—be a fugitive? She’d always been an honest, law-abiding citizen. All she’d ever asked of life was a home and a place to belong; someone to love and someone who loved her; children someday—children she would never abandon to an orphanage.