The hills around them roll green and lively, but Lucy’s gotten sick of them considering the circumstances. "Where’s my husband?" She asks the deer-man. "Your horse nearly stepped on him--is he okay?"

The deer-man doesn’t answer, only taps out a song on the other side of the glass. His skull lies next to his chair; it’s the giant elk now.

"What’s happened to our daughter?" She tries again.

"She’s an adult," he tells her with a shrug. "She can take care of herself."

"That doesn’t mean she’ll be perfectly fine about her parents going missing for two weeks!"

"Ah, yes. Humans are so attached to their bloodlines."

Lucy huffs; it’s pointless to explain why she’s worried if the deer-man clearly isn’t human. "Why did you even take us here?"

The deer-man laughs, and it bounces through his skull. "It’s fun listening to you."

He steps through the glass and pulls a pair of bronze scissors out of his pocket. He is unusually handsome underneath the skull mask, but Lucy doesn’t trust the smooth, silvery skin or the green cat’s eyes. The scissors move at her face, and she winces--but after a snip at her hair, he fluffs it.

"I can see where she got that hair." He nods in approval, turning the curl around. "Yours is nice, but I like them wild."

She stiffens. "How old are you?"

He pockets the scissors and the curled lock, then puts the skull back on. A piercing whistle sounds, and his horse and dogs appear.

She knows the glass won’t give, but still kicks halfheartedly. This time, though, the glass shudders into wide black cliffs, and moves to a trail by an icy river. The English part of the sign reads "Please keep the trails clean," and she doesn’t recognize the second language. Alima is with a blond guy that she doesn’t know--and Ned is a ghost at the end of a leash. He’s thin and ragged, but even with his limp, he keeps up with them easily.

"Ned?!" Lucy’s at the glass. "Alima!"

"--any tricks yet?" The blond boy asks, in a lilting Irish accent. "He’s just about healed now, isn’t he?"

"He just stares at me and lies down," Alima admits with a laugh. "I don’t think--"

She hits it. "Ned, I’m here! Ned!"

She sees his ears prick, and he drags Alima away from the river. "Lucy."

"Agh, not again--Bulan, heel!"

"Bulan?! That’s Ned! Alima, that’s your--"

"Don’t!" The blond spots something and grabs Alima.

Ned stops and backs up as well: A circle of pale grass keeps him from going further, but his golden eyes are looking for her. "Lucy? Are you in there?"

Alima tugs at Ned’s leash. "Bulan, come."

He does so, but reluctantly, and whines in earnest. Alima’s pats are unnoticed as yellow eyes meet Lucy’s own.

"That’s a fairy ring," says the blond. "Sometimes it’s weird grass, sometimes it’s a ring of mushrooms. Either way, you don’t step in it."

Alima fiddles with her braid. "He probably smelled the magic and got curious."

"He’s not curious, honey, he’s looking for me!" Lucy pounds again. "NED!"

"Excuse me!" A crow crashes through the glass indignantly, and when the shards fall, she turns into a woman. "Just because you’re in a fairy-hill doesn’t mean you can yammer on--huh."

The crow-woman is nearly as tall as Ned, chalky pale. Her hair is a jet-black mess to her hips, and she is in a filmy, blood-colored mini-dress that exposes most of her skin.

"Are you... with the deer-man?" Lucy asks.

"Oops--sorry, I thought you were Folk and it turns out you’re human... Wait." The crow-woman’s eyes narrow. "You’re not Irish."

"I..." She looks in the glass. "I’d think that’s obvious."

"Pfft, bloodlines--they only count for so much. But you weren’t born in Ireland, you don’t call it home, and you aren’t even an old-walker." The crow-woman pokes at the glass. "What on earth are you doing in a fairy-hill?"

"I don’t know!" Lucy kicks the glass again. "My husband and I are just minding our own business at home, then we get grabbed by the deer-man, and now my husband is a dog and our daughter is clearly not in America anymore!"

"Ah, American. Also, by ’deer-man’--do you mean the man with white hair who turns into a deer, or the man who wears a deer-skull? I’m pretty sure it’s the latter, but Finn was a dick for a while and I don’t want to assume."

"The deer-skull," Lucy confirms. "So, do you know a way back to the mortal world?"

"I do," says the crow-woman. "The problem is that you don’t."

"I’m not a mage," Lucy slumps against the glass. "Please don’t do the riddle thing."

"I’m sorry." The crow-woman puts a hand out. "I would be more helpful if I could, but even I have to pay attention to some rules. I am the Morrigan."

Lucy shakes it, wincing at how tight the corded hand grips. "I suppose anyone’s better than the deer-man."

"I am much better," the Morrigan chuckles, eyes shadowed in her hair. "Now let’s get you out, Lucy."

The glass cracks into a spiderweb as they let go, and she shoots a look up. "Did I tell you my name?"

"You didn’t," says the Morrigan. "But it’s not hard to connect the dots when a girl’s left two months of offerings for Ned and Lucy Song, and then someone in a fairy-hill starts shrieking for Ned."

"It’s been two months?!"

"Almost five, technically," the Morrigan corrects herself. "She held out a good while before putting out offerings. And she still keeps saying ’just in case.’"

"So... so why is she treating us like ancestors?" But she doesn’t need an answer, and wetness trails onto her shirt.

"Why else?" The Morrigan asks as gently as her rasp allows. "She couldn’t live at home anymore--everyone pitying her inside, even if they don’t mean harm--so she went to Ireland. It’s not your fault for getting snatched by the Hunter."

Just before the Morrigan turns, dogs begin to bay through the cracks in the glass. Lucy tries to step through now that the Morrigan’s weakened it, but she can’t breathe properly. "Ned," she wipes at her face. "Alima can’t talk to him, he’s cursed--"

"Don’t worry," she says, and becomes a huge black horse. "Get on."

She doesn’t know how to ride anything with four legs, much less bareback, but she has no other choice. The Morrigan helps by lying down, and Lucy winds her fists through the tangled mane as the goddess rocks up.

Once Lucy is steady, the Morrigan rears back with a scream, eyes rolling white as she smashes through Lucy’s cage. The shards turn to crow feathers as they break loose, and her liquid gait is nowhere near how horses move.

Crows mass above them, cackling in glee as they swarm the Hunter.

He’s after them already, but he also has to focus on the goddess’ inky comrades diving at him. They must not be normal birds--though they crumple as the Hunter’s dogs catch them, more of them emerge from the feathers that used to be glass.

"MORRIGAN!" It is a horrible, hollow yell as the crows overwhelm him with claws and beaks.

The Morrigan laughs in his face, careening up and up and up--and the sky roars open for them.

Lucy isn’t used to this much magic, it’s already shaking her bones to mush, but she clings as tight as she can. The red of the Morrigan’s dress shoots through the back of her head before she blacks out.

-----
When she wakes up, she is in a stone room. A man with blue eyes and a Hollywood smile waves from the nearby chair.

"Afternoon, sleepyhead," he says. "My name’s Aengus Og. The Morrigan couldn’t get you completely out, but at least you’re not a shut-in."

She tries to get up, but the bedframe tilts around. "You sound Scottish," she remarks after it goes still again.

He waves it off. "Scotland’s much younger than me."

"Did she have to stop because I blacked out?" She takes a hold of the quilt and inches herself up against the head of the bed. Her stomach feels off.

"No, the Hunter’s got quite a hold on you." He presses her shoulder and the blood steadies through her veins. "But you’re American, so you wouldn’t have known to have iron or salt."

"Are you a god?"

"I am."

She looks out the window, where a river bends black through the yellowed valley. "Is it going to be much longer before I get back home? I’ve been gone for five months already."

"No worries," Aengus says. "A day is a day in this part of the Otherworld. It’s the fairy-hills you need to watch for--most of them listen to the Hunter instead of Aine."

She makes a face at the sudden state of her clothes; they are not only dirty, but starting to fray. At least she doesn’t feel too gross herself. Something twinges on the side of her head, and she runs a hand through her hair with a sigh. "I bet he used magic scissors. What’s in the closet?"

"Who used scissors?" Aengus’ cheer is gone now. He finds the cut lock immediately, stares at it hard, then whistles. "FIANNA!"

Two young men in fawn-brown suits appear. "Someone needs a bodyguaaaard!" One of them sings, and they high-five before listening to Aengus.

"Two jobs--" Aengus is cut off by another boy appearing too late.

"Ugh! Wes, you bastard!" He turns for the door, but Wes grabs him.

"All right, Wes, two jobs," Aengus resumes. "Keep an eye on Lucy, and find her daughter before the Hunter does."

"Oh boy." His lips thin, and the pine tree out the window groans. Or maybe it’s just the wind.

"What do you mean, ’oh boy’?" Lucy demands.

Wes takes a notepad out. "Did the Hunter directly curse you, or do you think it’s residual--"

"What are you all doing in here?!" A redhead storms in, long skirt flickering red. She is too delicate to look truly angry, but her pale eyes burn. "She fainted because the Morrigan just had to goad the Hunter into chasing them, and she’s not even ten minutes awake before--"

"Creepy stalking, Brighid!" Wes waves the notepad frantically. "He got her hair!"

"Oh, no. Did he do anything serious, love?"

"Not to me," she says. "But he kidnapped me and my husband, and now my daughter thinks we’re dead because it’s apparently been five months instead of two weeks. And he made a really creepy pass at her."

A shudder from the Fianna. The pine bends and creaks.

"Oh, I think I know her." Brighid bites her lip. "But shower and eat first, love. You must be starving now that you’re out of the fairy-hill."

"Actually..." Lucy feels a twinge of hunger, but it’s more like she’s skipped a couple of meals than gone months without eating. The offerings, she remembers. Alima thinks we’re dead.

The burn in her throat means that she can’t do more than nod.

Next Chapter: XIV: hide and seek