by Kevin Hearne
A mist rolls in from the Morrigan’s gothic horror show of a house, and I can tell by the way it behaves it’s not natural, nor is it a mere binding: It’s Manannan’s Cloak of Mists, which means I’m about to be lost in the fog shortly before being pounded into stew meat. I shout into it as it envelops me.
“I’m here to talk, damn it, not fight! I’m here with a herald! Put your cloak away, Manannan, and let’s spill some whiskey instead of blood!”
The mist halts, then retreats like it’s being sucked down a drain, and when it’s gone, there’s a long-bearded man standing there in a white tunic, his blue eyes cold.
Manannan looks tired. Aged too; there’s some gray in his beard, methinks, which wasn’t there before. I think those magic youth-restoring hogs of his are still back in Tír na nÓg. Or perhaps his disposition isn’t suited to being a rebel. Or perhaps it’s my imagination and it’s the dreary atmosphere of the fen that makes him look so weary and chewed up.
“Can we talk, Manannan? I’ve come with this Coriander lad, who’s supposed to be well known, and I bring an offer from the First among the Fae.”
A single eyebrow quirks up at that news. “An offer? Or terms of surrender?”
“Definitely an offer. No surrender involved, for you or Fand.”
Manannan’s eyes shift behind me shoulder and he raises a hand to halt the yewmen. “Stop. My last order is rescinded.”
I turn and see the yewmen there, approaching from behind. They halt a safe distance away, and Manannan dismisses them.
“Our selection of whiskeys may not be so rare as the last time we dined,” he tells me, “but you’re welcome at our table, Eoghan Ó Cinnéide, and you as well, Coriander. We’ll hear this offer.”
“That’s very kind of ye, Manannan.” We draw close and I see that it’s not me imagination: The face of the god of the sea looks like someone crumpled it up and then tried to stretch it flat again, lines of stress all over it. He made a hard choice when Fand rebelled, and had he chosen Brighid’s side over his wife’s, I don’t think he’d look any different. He’d be miserable regardless, and I think I can empathize. Or is it sympathize? I fecking hate English. But whatever the proper word is, I see a smidgen of his problem. I am caught between Greta and Siodhachan and hope I never have to choose between the two. Luckily they are merely estranged and not actively trying to destroy each other.
Which reminds me: I owe the herald some kindness, and I pay him while we walk. “Coriander, lad, that was some fine saving of me arse ye did back there. Thank ye for keeping me alive to this point. I know I can be an angry hollering tit and—well, I just wanted ye to know I’m not that way all the fecking time.”
The herald raises one corner of his mouth. “Indeed? And for how much time, sir, shall I expect you to be…so mild and genteel?”
“Honestly, this half a minute might be it. Savor it while ye can. Greta—that’s me girlfriend—says I might need years of therapy.”
“She sounds like a wise and caring companion, if I may say so.”
“That she is, and ye may.” Manannan has nothing to add. He keeps his head down and gives no indication he wishes to speak or be spoken to. We slog in silence most of the way to the Morrigan’s nightmarish warren or nest or whatever she used to call it. I speak up before we walk in, though, once the ground firms up and dries out a wee bit.
“Forgive me for askin’, Manannan, but are ye well? I’ve seen ye lookin’ better.”
He stops, considers, then looks up when he has an answer. “I am well physically. But I have essentially been confined to this plane for a while now and I miss the ocean. I miss the sense of harmony I once felt. Both were more important to my happiness than I realized.”
“Fair enough. I hope me offer will allow ye to find that harmony again.”
“Let us hope together. Please, enter and be welcome.”
In Fae circles, that’s about as clear a guarantee of safety as one can expect. I step past the threshold and behold a room covered in bones. Not the floor, but all four walls plus the ceiling. It’s a whole lot of dead people’s remains, shellacked and burnished and fitted together, set off by the occasional skull grinning gumless at ye from the other side of the veil.
“Well,” I says, “it’s a bold look, an’ that’s no lie. Definitely a statement. Maybe not a statement of actual welcome, but it’s a statement.”
“Do excuse the décor,” Manannan says. “The Morrigan had unusual tastes, and we have not had time to remodel.”
He leads me through the next room, which contains a clear, narrow pool fed by three gurgling waterfalls. There’s a chorus of eerie voices singing in a minor key, and it’s the opposite of relaxing. I’m about to ask what fresh shite is this when Manannan offers an explanation.
“The Morrigan would use this pool to cleanse blood from her body after she returned from her exertions. We don’t know where the singing is coming from, and our efforts to make it stop have thus far been unsuccessful.”
“Ah. Very practical of her,” I says. “That’s thinking ahead, that is. Now that I see it, I can’t understand why more homes don’t have a room like this.”
Coriander snorts softly and Manannan grunts, enjoying the dry commentary. “Refreshing bloodbaths, haunted by the voices of people you’ve slain. Blood rooms instead of mud rooms. Yes. They will soon be in the suburban homes of mortals everywhere.”
“I could probably use a bath, to be honest. I’m a mess, wearing half the fen on me front.”
Manannan waves at the pool. “By all means. I will have clothing brought to you here.”
I strip and wade in and it’s a cool pool, but not cold. It would be refreshing if not for the haunted cries wailing about the room. I do me best to wash off the wounds I’ve collected and use the energy in me knuckles to heal. Apart from that, I don’t linger, because it’s a mite creepy, and some Fae bring me a towel and some fresh clothes straightaway.
The next room is a long one, rather like the dimensions of a mead hall, full of helmets mounted on the wall, organized from oldest to newest. It would be a grand history of armor, I suppose, fit for any museum, except that the helmets still have skulls inside them.
“Trophies,” Manannan says. “Men who dared to give her insult over the centuries.”
The helmets give way to hats as the wars in Europe subsided, though I do spy an actual motorcycle helmet at the end and some ball caps, plus a couple of fedoras.
After that is the first genuinely pleasant room I’ve seen. There are two red upholstered chairs in front of a stone hearth, a wool rug spread out to buffer the feet from the cold floor, and gilt-framed paintings on the bone-free walls, illuminated by candles resting in sconces. Sure, the paintings are all of battlefields and feature crows feasting on the staring eyes of the slain, but they’re masterfully done.
Our reception by the rebellious Queen of the Faeries waits beyond, in a dining hall that’s fair-sized but by no means large, since the Morrigan never expected to play hostess for more than a few.
Fand, in contrast to Manannan, is fecking resplendent. She’s wreathed in frippery and fancy doodads and whatnots and she radiates health and power. Maybe she’s doing yoga or had a superfood for breakfast. Greta says science cranks out miraculous solutions to aging every week, so many that ye could spend your whole extended life trying them all out. But kale is worse than old man balls, she says, though I don’t rightly know what kale is, or why she hates it so much, or even when old man balls became a superfood. That whole conversation confused me and I let it slide past, like much of the nonsense this modern age throws me way. Maybe Fand has been eating kale or something else to make her look so fine. More likely she’s simply glamoured, but if I peek in the magical spectrum she’ll know and be insulted. Better to just accept her magnificence at face value.
“Welcome, Coriander,” she says, her voice warm and s
weet like honey in summer. But when she turns to me, her voice is furry with hoarfrost. “Hello, Jailor.”
Ah. She hasn’t forgotten that bit, then. I give her a shallow nod—less than her due—and force a friendly smile. “Fand. I appreciate ye seeing me.”
She offers no reply to this but waves at the spare table, set with a couple of cheese boards and some bottles of whiskey and wine. The room lacks anything fancy: Simple wood chairs, sunlight streaming through high windows providing some weak light instead of candles, no tapestries or sculptures or seashell motifs like I saw in their place in Tír na nÓg. Stone walls and floors, no rugs. It’s a different aesthetic from Manannan’s estate, for sure. Minimalist, methinks it’s called. Or miserable. I think the words may be related. Only Fand and Coriander stand out in this gloom.
We sit and Manannan pours me some whiskey that’s been aged in stout beer barrels. It’s a fine medley of flavors and I feel it mellowing me bones almost immediately. Manannan pours a glass for himself and says, “Sláinte,” but Fand reaches for wine, and Coriander follows her lead. I wonder if there’s anything to that—is it merely his preference, or is there some message there? Is he being diplomatic, or is he trying to signal to Fand that his sympathies lie with her? Me skills with nuances are often limited to being just aware enough of their existence to know that I’m probably missing them.
Bloody nuances.
Fand asks Coriander how the Fae are faring in Tír na nÓg and asks him to convey her fond regard. He agrees, and an awkward silence falls until Manannan asks about me grove of apprentices.
“Ah, they’re grand. Fast learners and pure hearts. They’ll serve Gaia well.” I remembered suddenly that I did have one icebreaker at me disposal that hadn’t failed yet. “Speaking of apprentices, did I ever tell ye the totally true story about Siodhachan, the Roman skirt, and the goat?”
Fand frowns at the mention of his name, but a minute later she’s snorting into her wineglass and peals of laughter bounce off the walls. Manannan throws his head back to roar out loud with such force that he topples over in his chair and crashes to the floor. Coriander’s face turns the color of a tomato as he laughs hoarsely and tries to catch his breath. That story has done me more good winning people to me side than any bottle ever has, though the spirits no doubt help to loosen them up. They are all in a much better mood, then, when I give them Brighid’s offer.
“Ireland’s at risk due to this Ragnarok business. Word is it’s coming in a few days.”
Fand nods. I’m not surprising her with anything.
“I’m not the sort to be fancy with me words, so I’ll say it plain: Brighid wants your help and then she’d like to welcome ye home. Fight in Ragnarok. Save some lives to make up for the ones ye took. Restore balance, gain honor and renown the way the Tuatha Dé Danann are used to, on the field of battle, and be welcome in Tír na nÓg again.”
“Under her rule? The Iron Throne?”
“Aye.”
“Absolutely not.”
I catch a flash of disappointment on Manannan’s face. He’d like to take the deal, no doubt. So it’s Fand that needs convincing.
“Allow me to ask for clarification on one thing: Do ye object more to Brighid’s rule or that she’s doing it from the Iron Throne?”
“The throne, of course!” she spits, and the surprise on me face must have encouraged her to explain in more even tones. “It’s that iron in the face of the Fae every day that makes her insufferable. It’s both a threat and an insult. We know she’s mastered iron and we’re unlikely to forget it; there’s no need to terrorize the Fae with it at Court every second.”
I swing around to Coriander, Brighid’s Herald Extraordinary, to see if he agrees with this assessment. He winces and sucks at his teeth and I have no idea if he’s agreeing or what.
“Be plain, lad, don’t just scrunch up yer face at me like some swollen, pouty anus!”
He flinches and then says, “Were we in private, I would agree with Fand’s assessment.”
“I’m not going to tell. I just need to know the truth of things, since I’ve obviously been away, so thank ye.” I turn back to Fand. “I had no idea what Brighid sat on was such a thorny issue. Have ye communicated this to her before?”
“We have, on many occasions. She refuses to even consider scrapping it.”
“And when was the last time?”
Fand defers to Coriander to answer that.
“I believe it was as recently as the 1960s, by human reckoning, when the Fae became upset at the existence of a mortal band called Iron Butterfly and renewed their plea to rid the Court of the scourge of iron.”
“The Fae got upset over a band name? Never mind, of course they did—a better question is why ye think sixty years or more qualifies as recent? Plenty has changed since then. Especially right now. Ye may have some leverage ye didn’t have before. So let me pose a hypothetical, Fand: If I can get Brighid to agree to ditch the Iron Throne, will ye fight in Ragnarok, then go home again to live in peace? She’d still be First among the Fae, mind, but you’d also have won something for them, wouldn’t ye? And all would be forgiven. Manannan would have his ocean again.” I gesture at the forlorn god of the sea, and Fand glances his way, seeing how desperately unhappy he is. I press on: “Ye wouldn’t be stuck in this fen surrounded by bones and cold stone walls. Sounds like the closest thing to harmony you’re going to get.”
“Hmm. What say you, husband?” Fand asks.
“I say it’s a way back,” he replies. “And I think both the price and the reward are fair.”
Fand leans forward, selects a cube of Irish cheddar, and pops it gracefully into her mouth. She chews as she thinks it over, demonstrating that it is in fact possible to eat cheese beautifully. I’m thinking that the Beautiful Cheese Eaters is a far better band name than Iron Butterfly when Fand gives me an answer.
“I am not so sure about the price. She gets rid of some furniture and in return gets an army. Still, it is, as you say, Manannan, a way back. Very well, Eoghan. Speaking only for myself and the Fae host: If—and only if—Brighid agrees to remove the Iron Throne from Court, we will fight in Ragnarok for Ireland and then return to Tír na nÓg, our rebellion forgiven, our possessions returned, and agree that Brighid is First among the Fae, to live in harmony again.”
“Very good. Manannan?” I ask.
“Aye,” he says. “I too agree to this.”
“Coriander, do ye witness this?”
“I do.”
“Well, then. If ye will excuse me, I have some more talking to do. I hope to have an answer for ye soon.”
I have plenty of hopes, in fact, as I leave that fen. So many that I think maybe this qualifies as an example of the Second Law of Owen: Sometimes, ye can clean up the shite.
i am so pumped full of adrenaline by the time we make it back to Kacper Glowa’s house that my hands are shaking as we enter. I had shifted to Flagstaff briefly to pick up the special stakes that Creidhne had given us to use in Rome, where merely breaking the skin anywhere would unbind the vampire in question. We had given them all to Owen for safekeeping and to help the werewolves defend against any vampires that might show up at the site of the grove. Owen and his grove weren’t there, so it was simple enough to sneak in, take a pair of stakes, and sneak out again. Now I have one in my left hand as I descend into the vampire bunker, and Flidais has another; I carry my staff, Scáthmhaide, in my right hand, and Flidais carries her bow. We each turn invisible by prior arrangement as we enter the bunker proper and pause to listen. Nothing.
We creep down to the library in silence and find it just as we left it. I’m tasked with finding the Scooby-Doo lever on the bookcase, and it takes me only moments because it’s painfully obvious: Pull on the Polish translation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and a click and scrape moves the bookcase aside. We’re confronted with a hallway paneled in hardwoods and
a floor covered in a plush burgundy carpet. Neither of us moves; we wait.
“Hello?” A voice calls after a few moments, and then repeats it with a note of impatience. “Hello!”
We remain in place. Opening the door was our move; the next one was theirs.
A clear sigh of frustration meets our ears and then some mumbled curses as the unseen guard or receptionist comes to investigate. It’s a mustached man who carries himself like a fighter, but he’s not prepared for an invisible ambush. Flidais plunges a stake into his throat and he gurgles once before falling to his knees, clutching at the stake as blood wells around its circumference. He remains solid as he dies; a human thrall, then, and not a vampire. I figured there would be one or more guarding the place, and it’s difficult for me to summon any sympathy for them since they would not be thralls if they did not wish to prey on other humans.
We wait a few moments more and then Flidais hisses quietly at me to follow. I can’t see her, but once I’m in the hallway I see a desk with monitors behind it to the left. It’s the thrall’s security station. I go that way and run into Flidais by accident.
“I’m rubbish at this,” she murmurs to me in Old Irish. “How do we proceed?”
I duck around the desk and look at the banks of monitors and keyboards and so on. Everything’s labeled in Polish.
“A moment,” I say, trying to decipher what I’m looking at. There are views of multiple rooms, each filled with many men and women lounging in chairs and talking over tables, but there is no way to tell which are vampires, which are thralls, and which are intended to be food.
One room is stacked floor to ceiling with coffins on shelves—strange vampire bunk beds, I suppose, but obviously in a more secure location than the few coffins we found in the rest of the facility. There are two buttons with biometric pads underneath them: one marked LIBRARY, and one marked SANCTUM.