The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [111]
“I’ve heard of them.” He didn’t look interested in my tale any longer. His mouth was set and the frown line had appeared between his eyes. Dean was angry, but with me or a secret something I couldn’t tell.
“I got caught up in the ring and the mist,” I continued. “And I swear, Dean … I wandered right into the Land of Thorn. A fairyland.”
Dean whipped his gaze from left to right across the trail, into the trees on one side and the old farmhouse yard on the other. His hand went into his pocket, the right one, where he kept his switchblade.
A wind ruffled the hairs on the back of my neck, and the tree branches stirred, a clacking like hungry mouths as the branches scraped.
Dean snatched my arm. “We can’t talk about this out in the open.”
“What in the—” I started, as he dragged me down the lane toward the skeleton of the house. The roof had caved in and the floor gaped down to the root cellar. The crows increased their volume as Dean dragged me.
“Just walk,” he murmured in my ear. “Try to look natural. We’re just a boy and girl, out for a stroll.” He let go his vise-tight grip on my arm and slipped his hand into mine instead.
I glanced at the trees again. The wind had ceased as quickly as it had been born, and the trees were still. The shadows under them looked longer, the bare branches sharper, and I felt the blurriness in my head that had overtaken me just before Tremaine’s hexenring had spirited me to the Thorn Land.
“Just a boy and a girl,” I agreed. My fingers locked tighter in his of their own accord, and I was reassured when Dean squeezed.
“Walk,” he whispered, lips against my hair. “And don’t look back until we’re inside the house.”
Soon enough we reached the doorway, devoid of a door, and ducked inside. An ancient, moldy table and chairs still stood in front of the fireplace, as if rot had overtaken the house at terrible speed, forcing the inhabitants to flee.
Dean let go of my hand, flexing his fingers. “You’ve got a grip, princess.”
“I do when I’m nervous,” I agreed. “You don’t think I’m nutty for any of this? For saying I saw the Kindly Folk, and that—”
Dean pressed a finger to his lips. Around the house, I could still hear the crows, scrabbling and fussing in the trees.
“I know it sounds crazy.” I lowered my voice so our conversation didn’t reach outside. “But I met one of the Folk, talked to him. His name’s Tremaine. He was awful.” I shivered.
Dean nodded, as if he’d been listening for something. “The black birds are watching out. For now. As for this Folk, I suppose he wanted something.”
“I … Why would you say that?” I blinked at him.
“The Folk always want something,” Dean said. “It’s the magpie nature. They see shine in someone or something and they have to steal it and keep it.”
I decided I could pry how Dean knew so much about the Folk out of him later. For now, it was enough that he believed me.
“Well,” I continued, “we made a bargain. He said he’d tell me where Conrad’s gone if I used my Weird for his ends. I’m going to do it, and then I’m going to find Conrad. There doesn’t have to be anything sinister about that.”
“Aoife …” Dean took both my hands and sat in one of the chairs. The floor of the farmhouse creaked ominously. “You trusted me to tell this much and I’m going to give you the same trust now, right?” Dean peered outside again. “What I’m saying, Aoife, is that in all the stories I’ve ever heard, you can’t trust the Folk. Treacherous, tricksy, terrible, every one.”
“Those are stories,” I said. “You’ve never met the Folk. I have. I don’t really have a choice but to do what they say.”
“No one’s met the Folk and lived to tell,” Dean argued. “Otherwise, there’d be more than stories. Break it off, Aoife. I’d say the same if you were dating a deadbeat.”
“You’d say that if I were dating anyone.” I smiled. Dean didn’t return it.
“Listen, princess. No one’s debating your smarts. Those, you’ve got in spades. But I maintain, you shouldn’t deal with the Folk. Nothing I’ve ever heard tells they want to do you a good turn.”
“I have no choice.