Free The Wicked and the Wondrous by Christine Feehan Page A

mention destructive.”
    He hoped it was kids. It had to be an army of kids, tearing wreaths off the doors of the houses and throwing them at passersby as a prank. He heard no laughter, not even running footsteps. He heard nothing but the rough breathing. It seemed to come out of the fog itself. The nape of his neck prickled with unease.
    “It isn’t children playing a prank, Matt.” Kate sounded close to tears. “It’s much, much worse.”
    “Kate.” He stroked a caress down the back of her head. Her hair was inside the hood of the cape, but his palm lingered anyway. “It isn’t the first time a group of kids decided to play around, and it won’t be the last.”
    The Christmas wreaths lay around them in a circle, some smashed or crushed and others in reasonably good shape. Kate lifted her face away from his chest and took a breath. “I can smell it, can’t you?”
    Matt inhaled deeply. He recognized the foul, noxious odor of the gases in the old mill. His heart jumped. “Dammit, Kate. I’m beginning to believe you. Let’s get the hell out of here before I decide I’m crazy.”
    She pulled free of his arms. “Is that what you think about me? That I’m crazy?”
    “Of course not. This is all just so damned odd.”
    Her sea-green eyes moved over his face, a little moody, a little fey. “Well, brace yourself, it’s going to get damned odder. Stay still.”
    The fog swirled around them, their faces, their feet, and bodies, spinning webs of charcoal gray matter. As at the cliff house, Matt got the impression of bony fingers, and this time they were trying to grab at Kate. Without thinking, he caught her up and started to run, the urge strong to get her away from the long gray tentacles, but the blanket of fog was thick around them.
    Kate pressed her lips to his ear. “Stop! I have to try to stop it, Matthew; it’s what I do. We can’t outrun the fog, it’s everywhere.”
    “Dammit, Kate, I don’t like this.” When she didn’t respond, he reluctantly put her down and stayed very close to her, ready for action.
    She turned in the direction of her home, her face serene, thoughtful, yet determined. She radiated beauty, an inner fire and strength. She whispered, a soft, melodic chant that became part of the night, of the air surrounding them. She wasn’t speaking English but a language he didn’t recognize. Her voice was soothing, tranquil, a soft invitation to a place of peace and harmony with the earth.
    The fog itself breathed harder, in and out, a burst of air sounding like a predatory animal with teeth and claws. The mist seemed to vibrate with anger, roiling and spinning and growing darker. Gray fog whirled around the Christmas wreaths at Matt’s feet, spinning fast enough to lift them into the air. Bright green wreaths withered and blackened as if all the life was being sucked out of them. The objects reminded Matt of the garlands at funerals rather than the cheery decorations for a holiday, and each of them seemed to be aimed straight toward Kate.
    His breath caught in his throat, and his heart pounded. Kate looked small and fragile under the onslaught of the vicious gray-black vapor. He moved, a fluid glide that took him into the path of the blackened garlands so that they smashed into his larger frame. Kate ignored the fog and the wreaths, concentrating on something inside of herself. She stared toward the house on the cliffs and abruptly lifted her arms straight up into the air. The wind rushed in from the ocean with wild force. It carried the crisp scent of the sea, the taste and feel of the waves, and a spray of salt. It also carried voices, soft and melodious and very feminine. The wind swept through the fogbank, the voices swelling in strength, Kate’s voice joining theirs until they were in perfect harmony, in total command.
    The spinning Christmas wreaths dropped to the road. The fog receded, heading inland, blanketing the residential homes; but the wind was persistent, shifting