Chapter 9: Chapter 8: The Huntsman

Swinside Stone Circle, Cumbria

The storm began before Grey reached the stones. It wasn’t dramatic thunder or theatrical lightning, just a cold, relentless downpour that soaked through cloak, boots, and bone. The kind of rain that silenced birds and turned breath to fog. Swinside loomed ahead through the sheets, blurred and hulking like a slumbering beast rising from its mossed bedding.

It felt like it rained wherever she went, and she was starting to take it personally.

The call had come just past midnight. A ripple on the wards. A pulse in the ground. Something wrong in the threads. Again. Her second haunting in as many weeks.

Grey squinted into the rain, tugging her hood lower though it did little to help. The stone circle was darker than it should have been. Its glamour hadn’t just thinned—it was fraying, edges blurring like overexposed film. The ground churned beneath her boots, mud swallowing the tops of her soles. The scent of ozone clung to everything.

This wasn’t the usual quiet grief of a soul refusing to pass. This was panic.

The air snapped inward like a held breath.

In the center of the circle, the ghost was unraveling.

It was a child this time—a boy of about seven, flickering between visibility and fog, his body twitching like an old reel of film caught on a loop. His eyes were wide, but unseeing, and his mouth moved in a stuttering chant.

"Mum said—she said—I promised—MUM SAID—she—she said—I PROMISED—promised—"

Each repetition warped further, the voice pitching up unnaturally high as the soul’s tether snapped and re-formed in the same instant. Around the circle, runes began to spark—then spit, then crackle with open fury.

This was more than memory confusion. This was a feedback loop.

Grey moved quickly, rain forgotten. Her fingers itched with residual energy, a warning she never ignored.

She didn’t shout. That never helped. Instead, she stepped into the spiral, letting the cold pierce her ribs. She knelt, just within reach of the boy’s tethered light, and opened both hands palm-up, steadying her breath.

"I hear you," Grey said softly. "I hear what you remember. But is it your voice speaking?"

The ghost twitched.

"Your name is Tom," Grey murmured. "Remember? You fell into the river last spring. The reeds were too deep."

Tom’s eyes flared briefly. Recognition. Grief.

"Who told you to go back?"

The child’s mouth opened, but this time no chant came—only a hiss of golden light, like breath through silk. Not his voice. Not his memory. The air smelled of iron. All the hair on her arms rose.

"Who gave you that promise?" Grey asked, quieter now.

The rain stilled for half a breath. Then the ghost shattered into mist and vanished. Not passed on. Not reclaimed.

Gone.

And Grey was suddenly, painfully alone.

She exhaled slowly. Her breath came out ragged. Water slid down her nose, pooled in her collar. Her fingers trembled, not with cold—but with something close to grief. No—closer to anger. Something had stolen that child’s ending.

A quiet voice spoke behind her.

"You couldn't have stopped that."

Grey turned, already knowing.

The man stood just outside the circle, boots untouched by mud, the storm curling around his shoulders like it knew better than to wet him. Of course it did. He had that annoying classic Fae look: timeless and untouchable, like a model who had stumbled out of a gothic painting and into her very wet reality.

He was taller than she thought from the glimpse she saw last time, or maybe the storm made him look that way. Dressed in layered black on black—coat, shirt, high-collared undershirt—accented with subtle silver fastenings that glimmered when the lightning flashed. His hair, long and dark, hung to his waist, clinging to his back like ink caught in motion. One hand rested on his hip, near a dagger sheathed in a belt that didn’t belong to any time Grey knew. The other hand was bare, idly catching raindrops that never reached the ground.

His eyes were amber. Not brown—not hazel. Amber. Bright as dusk seen through stained glass. And they were watching her too closely.

"Who are you?" Grey hedged, hoping she was wrong, wiping rain from her brow. "What do you want with me, Fae?"

She sounded openly hostile. She was cold, wet, and in no mood for cryptic court games.

"Ah," the man said, stepping into the circle. "There it is. A question."

His accent lilted faintly... Irish? Scottish? She couldn't quite tell. Not thick, but enough to paint his vowels with charm. He offered a half-bow, theatrical.

"Alaric Fen. Late of the Wild Hunt. Current liaison to the Unseelie Court. Collector of strange puzzles and stubborn ghosts."

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Grey stared. "Why are you watching me? What business could the Hunt possibly have with a Harrower that you couldn't run through the official channels?" She emphasized the last bit with a droll flick of her fingers. She wasn’t impressed by his charm, it grated.

She didn't like being scrutinized, especially not by Fae men. Gorgeous or not. Not that any of them weren't, she thought sulkily.

Alaric smiled, teeth flashing.

"Only with admiration. And a mild existential crisis."

He stepped closer, boots making no sound, despite the sodden earth. His gaze lingered on Grey’s soaked coat, her dripping hair, the quiet defiance in her posture.

"You see, you are somewhat of a puzzle, pet." He loomed over her diminutive frame with 6 ft and some change of pure fairy muscle. She expected the physical intimidation. It was a common Fae tactic used to cow humans, especially female ones, into submission.

She waited for the honeyed words, the next flirtatious advance, grimacing inwardly. Which is why the next thing out of his mouth threw her for a bit of a loop.

"You handled that spirit like a priest handling snakes," Alaric murmured. "Or a god handing back a prayer."

"I’m not a god," Grey spluttered, nonplussed.

"Mm," He said. "That’s what they always say, pet."

Grey blinked.

Alaric faltered. Just for a moment. The smile wobbled at the edge. Grey wasn’t flustered by his proximity. Wasn’t blushing, which is the usual pedestrian response he was used to. Wasn’t even mildly amused. She looked… concerned. That was new. He was used to steering the conversation in a direction that benefited him most and unsettled humans. Most female mortals (and the occasional male) practically launched themselves at him once they got close enough to appreciate the packaging.

This defiant wee thing looked at him with eyes dark as a reflecting pool filled with stars, calm and unflinching. As if he were a clerical filing error.

"Are you cold?" Grey asked suddenly. "You don’t have a hat."

Alaric stared. Then barked out a laugh. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t mocking. It was honest—a surprised sound, as if the laughter had ambushed him.

"Greylene," Alaric said, after a pause, his unusual lilting brogue tumbling over the vowels. "You’re called Grey."

"You know that," Grey grimaced again. Felt like the expression was starting to be a permanent feature. Great. He definitely knew more than he should. And if he ever found out about—well. Best not to think about that now.

"I wanted to hear you say it."

Grey tilted her head, considering. "I’m sorry, but do you flirt with every human you happen upon in the wild?"

Alaric raised a brow. "Often. They usually notice." And respond, he added to himself.

Grey frowned, serious. "I thought you were warning me."

"I was."

"You’re bad at it."

That did it. Alaric looked skyward, muttered something in a language no longer spoken, then ran a hand through his rainless hair.

"You’re… not what I expected,” he said finally.

Grey arched a brow, arms still folded, her entire form radiating righteous affront. “Go on then. What did you expect? A bone-rattling crone muttering spells into a jar of teeth?”

Alaric huffed, almost sheepish. “No, I expected something colder. Clinical. The Harrowers are… effective. Detached. Their rites are methodical, like surgery. Necessary, but rarely tender.”

Grey's lips twitched. “And I ruined your tidy assumption, did I?”

He met her gaze, serious now. “You listened to that ghost. Not just the words—it was the way you listened. You treated him like a person, not a malfunction. You mourned him even as you let him go. Now, why is that, pet?”

Grey looked away avoiding those burning eyes, rain streaking down her cheek. “It shouldn’t be rare, should it?”

“No,” the Fae said. “But it is.”

Grey shrugged. "Neither are you."

A pause. Then:

"...Beg pardon?" He looked as if the conversation had somehow left him a few steps behind.

Grey sighed in resignation. "You are also not what I expected, Alaric Fen."

Oh yes, she knew who he was. The Queen's Huntsman. The one from the stories, with the long black hair and eyes like fire, laughter like lightning, who rode the storm down from the hills. She’d grown up on those whispered stories, tales told around solstice fires and Halloween bonfires—of girls who raced into the forest on Samhain, daring the Huntsman of the Wild Hunt to find them. Hoping they would. And here he was, looking not at all like myth, but very much like a problem in a well-tailored coat. She waited for him to protest, to complain that it was all just Harrower propaganda and he was "Innocent, your honour! Honest!"

Professor Durei would probably have conniptions if Grey ever got around to telling her she saw him in person.

They stood in silence as the rain picked up again.

Alaric stayed silent, surprising her again. But she saw the way his jaw tightened when she said his name as he watched her expression, which was judgemental, obviously. Not interested in his outfit or anything. Just how much did those boots cost, anyway?

He turned and glanced at the circle as if waiting for another ghost to appear. Grey watched him, arms crossed under her cloak, fingertips cold, head still spinning.

She decided that he'd had enough time to defend himself, and was therefore guilty as charged, no more needed to be said on the topic.

"Do you know who is behind this?" Grey asked.

Alaric’s jaw tensed even more. Just slightly. The wee English lass had seen the Seelie sigil and seemed insistent of jumping from topic to topic without preamble. He was so used to human conversations being predictable that he was struggling with the concept of having to pay attention. What was she playing at? Trying to fish out what he knew?

"You know who, pet."

Ugh. She hated being called anything endearing. Wickham was the only exception—he called everything 'darling', from small furry woodland animals to confused undergrads, wandering ghosts, and once, memorably, a taxidermy owl in the Leeds Museum which wore a terminally startled expression, frozen forever.

"Someone needs to stop them," he said.

Grey nodded grimly. "And if it’s me?"

"Then you’ll need help."

"From you?"

The Fae met her eyes. The flirtation was gone. Just for a breath.

"Oh, aye," he said. Simply. As if that was a given.

He watched her turn away slightly, brushing rain from her cheek. Her wariness was understandable. And deserved.

Alaric swallowed hard.

Ah, of course she'd heard stories. But only the bad ones, it seemed.

He'd known that would be the case. Still—it stung.

The myth of the Wild Hunt. The terror of the Queen’s Huntsman. There had been nights when he had leaned into it, become the blade the court needed. He was self-aware enough to realise that he deserved at least some of the bad press he had gotten over the years.

But she'd seen only the shadow. Not the man.

He did not know yet if he wanted her to.

And worse—he feared what it would mean if she did.