Let the unwelcome pest make its own arrangements to find the baby or kid, or whatever. Not Wycke’s problem.
He let out a breath, smiling in anticipation. Visiting the human realm allowed him to escape his nickname:
Wicked.
Wycke spent the afternoon going over fashion magazines the fairy sent, selecting styles to allow him to fit in. He glanced up, watching the ever-expanding portal in the mirror. The process took the-ancestors-knew how long, but a slow, steady trickle of magic avoided detection.
Could Chynne build a portal? Possibly. With his very life on the line, Wycke trusted only himself. He turned toward his unexpected guest.
Chynne sat on Wycke’s bed, one leg hiked into the air, licking his junk. Definitely a male. The cat stopped mid-lick, tongue hanging out. “Do you mind? Grooming is a private matter.”
Wycke leaned back on his comfortable chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Then go someplace private.”
“You realize I can take dragon form and incinerate you, don’t you?”
“At the risk of incinerating your balls? Besides, I thought you couldn’t go dragon without your sorcerer.”
“He could show up at any time.” Chynne’s smile revealed far too many pointy teeth.
“Good point.” Wycke busied himself with last-minute preparations and his magazine. Jeans seemed widely acceptable, though he loved the look of the pinstriped suit. Surely his hired fairy kept abreast of current fashions.
Chynne hopped off the bed. “You know, I put up a shield spell. No one can detect any magic in the room.”
“What? Do you mean I wasted all this time? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.” Chynne grinned. Asshole.
The portal materialized at long last, a shimmering nothingness in the mirror. Without a word to the pesky familiar, Wycke stepped through, letting the portal snap shut behind him.
Let the furry asshole find his own way.
Wycke stood on a side street in the city Chynne told him to try, wrinkling his nose. Oh, the stench of car exhaust. Wycke had conveniently forgotten the downside of the human realm. How did people live here, breathing such filth? Of course, what could one expect from a place called Ash-ville? Debris lined the curb while dried grass shoved its way through cracks in the sidewalk. A haze hung over the twilight city; no sky visible. What a depressing place.
Outside, at least. He’d spend as little time outside as possible. The reek of car exhaust clung to his skin. Disgusting.
The air seemed thinner here than at Dhugach, the city elevated by mountains. Not as tall as the ones of his homeland, but a taste nonetheless. The buildings in this area appeared relatively new. Wycke removed his restraint cuff, extending a hand.
Power sizzled in his veins, racing through his body. Oh, stars, gods, and ancestors! Tremors racked his body—he barely managed to stay on his feet. Power, beautiful, wondrous power, filled him with nearly orgasmic intensity. Colors brightened; sounds crispened. Even the dreary city became far more acceptable.
He now saw past the gloom to the mountains in the distance.
He became one with his magic. Alive! He never felt so alive as he did in the human realm.
Remnants of magic sparkled in his vision, not enough to suggest a mage or a sorcerer. Perhaps an elf or fairy had passed this way. A quick left-right glance ensured no one witnessed his arrival. Tucking the silver armband into his pocket, he strode across the street to the last known residence of Captain Lyvianne and his charge.
Nothing magical dwelled within the building, though faint traces remained, a whiff of perfume hanging in the air long after the wearer left.
He ventured closer. Images flipped through his mind: a little boy, a scarred man. Hellhounds. Mages. Defensive spells. Fire.
Wycke followed the thread left by the scarred man, hanging his head when he reached the severed end. Sir Lyvianne walked no more among the living. But what of the kid? Without his protector, the mages surely captured him. Wycke’s belly roiled. They’d do to the kid what they’d do to Wycke: steal his magic—if he had any—leaving him gasping out his last breath.
No! Saris waited for good news, not confirmation of her old guard’s death. Besides, the traces were many human years old, though Wycke hadn’t yet figured out exactly where in time he’d landed.
He circled the building, visions appearing of the man and the child. Yes, the man certainly shared kinship, based on his coloring. The child’s hair was much darker.
Chynne swore his master lived. But how? Where?
Following the faint magical trail took Wycke to a school, stores, a park. Old tinges. No sign of either man or child in the recent past. Even if he possessed magic, an untried child against mages?