Chapter 6

Rhychard tied his long, black hair into a ponytail with a leather thong before grabbing the harness that held his collection of swords—two short swords made of iron, a substance the faerie world dreaded, and the long, bronze Guardian Sword that changed his life forever. Magic from the faerie world of the Land Under possessed the Guardian Sword, supposedly created by the Guardian himself and bestowed upon the mightiest warriors of the Sidhe elves to help protect the earth, the land of the Guardian’s creation, from the Destroyer and his creatures. Rhychard became the first human Warrior of the Way to exist and tossed the realms of faerie into a tizzy. Humans weren’t supposed to know the magical realm truly existed, and most times, Rhychard wished he was still ignorant of that fact, as well. He didn’t ask to be a Warrior. He had been drafted by the Guardian when the Warrior elf, Jamairlo, was killed by Vargas’s gargoyles. The creatures of the Void also killed Meelim, Jamairlo’s coshey. While the two were attacked, the Guardian pulled Rhychard to the scene of the fight, and before Jamairlo died, the elf passed the Guardian Sword to Rhychard. That was all it took. The Guardian didn’t ask if he wanted it or even told him what happened to him until after it was too late to refuse. Once your hand grasps the sword after a Warrior dies, you are committed for life. Rhychard wasn’t sure he could refuse even if he tried. The Guardian seemed to be one of those controlling, stubborn gods.

Rhychard slipped his arms through the harness, feeling the weight of the swords against his back. As soon as he clicked the harness into place, however, the swords vanished along with their heaviness. He could still feel them there, but they were no more of a hindrance than his shirt. He knew, though, the minute he reached back and drew one out, it would materialize in all its reality. The glamour was one of the gifts of the Seelie, allowing him to always be armed while going about his daily life unobstructed. And without being arrested. He learned in just a few months to always keep the swords close.

He turned to leave and there, standing in front of his bedroom door, was Renny, watching him with a confused look on her face. He froze. How? He rubbed at his eyes, but when he removed his hands from his face, she disappeared. His heart raced. He glanced around his room. He knew there was no way he saw what he thought he saw, but his heart hoped for it, nonetheless.

:Warrior, are you all right?:

He took a deep breath. It must be residue from his visit to Harvest Fellowship and his conversation with Aradhon. Renny weighed heavy on his mind, and in his early morning haze, he saw what his heart wanted him to see. :Yeah, I’m fine. Just need more coffee.:

:I think you are stalling to avoid facing your mother.:

Rhychard looked at the wall to where he knew Kree sprawled out on the other side. “You haven’t met my mother. Now I know why Dad drinks.”

:Then why did you agree to assist her in her endeavor?:

“She’s a lot like the Guardian,” Rhychard said as he left his room. “She doesn’t give you much of a choice. I’ll be back later. Try to do something useful.”

:I am always of use in one way or another.:

Rhychard just shook his head as he locked the door behind him. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. He always left the sliding door on the back porch cracked open, so Kree could come and go as he pleased. Besides, anyone breaking in would have to deal with a three-hundred-pound coshey, and that would scare anyone on to the straight and narrow.

The September morning air was still a little chill as Rhychard stepped from under the overhang covering his front porch. Putting his hands on his lower back, he took a deep breath, bending backward into a nice, long stretch. The cloudless sky invited him to play hooky, and he was very tempted. He could hear his mother’s whine reverberating in the imagined scolding playing through his mind that made him head to the truck with a sigh. “Might as well get it over with.”

“Rhychard! Rhychard! Wait up a second, Rhychard.”

Welcoming any delay to work for his mother, Rhychard turned as Logan McGarrett, the groundskeeper for Whispering Oaks, approached him. “Morning, Logan.” Rhychard waved at the older man as he approached. Logan had been the groundskeeper at the condos for thirteen years and grew closer to retirement as long as the government stopped upping the age requirement. He was a talkative old man who could tell you everything about everyone who lived there, although “it was none of his business and he hated busybodies.” However, ten minutes of listening to Logan could gain a person more knowledge than they wanted about their neighbors.

“They’re going to replace me, Rhychard.” Logan used a blue bandanna to wipe the worry from his forehead, a quirky nervous action, since no sweat could be seen on the man’s brow. “Thirteen years, Rhychard. Thirteen years. I bust my hump here for thirteen years, never complaining, never sticking my nose into other people’s business. I just do my job. Thirteen years. And now they want to get rid of me and not even tell me.” He ran a hand through his gray hair as he shoved the bandanna into the back pocket of his grungy faded jeans. The knees already had dirt ground into them from where he weeded one of the flowerbeds.

“Who said they were getting rid of you? I haven’t heard anything about it.” Rhychard glanced around the landscape, expecting to find some reason someone would complain about the elderly groundskeeper and desire him gone. Yet, Logan kept the place immaculate and would rival the White House grounds for its upkeep. The man knew his job and did it well, even if he did talk too much. No. If someone complained about Logan, it was because he knew too much about the personal lives of the tenants of Whispering Oaks.

“They don’t tell me. They just did it.” Logan pointed an ancient finger at the woods behind Rhychard’s condo along Manatee Creek. “I never was told to do that.”

Rhychard glanced over at the wooded section behind his condo, the shorter man still chattering away. The woods behind Whispering Oaks leading to Manatee Creek had always been an untamed section, overrun with palm fronds and vines. Rhychard had to cut a path to his Thinking Rock the first time he ventured out to the creek. He preferred it that way, to be honest. It meant fewer people would wander down and disturb his solitude. Kree used the woods as a means to travel back and forth from the condo to wherever he disappeared to when he ventured out. It was quiet, safe.

But not anymore. Not in a glaring way, but enough for Rhychard to see it, especially his trail. Someone cut back the palm fronds and brought other shrubs to the forefront of the landscape. The vines were under control and most of the foliage along the path was trimmed neat and proper. Even the path was raked, and a carpet of leaves mixed with pine needles lay neatly along the ground leading back toward the water, the same trail he took every time he ventured back there. It still looked like a wild, wooded area, but with an obvious taming to it. And the truly odd thing about it all was that none of it was like that last night when he was back there with Kree. Everything must have been accomplished throughout the night, but he hadn’t heard a thing nor had there been any lights turned on back there. How did the people, whoever did the landscaping, see what they were doing?