Judged

by Liz de Jager

  I twitch the curtain and spot them too. They’re not doing anything, though, yet. Crow is standing with his head bowed, concentrating on something, but when he looks up his eyes are the same colour they were in the forest – that unearthly glowing green.

  ‘Let me,’ he says, and before either Aiden or I can stop him, he pulls open the front door and walks out onto the steps. Like the majority of homes along the road, there are neatly trimmed hedges in front of the house. Crow looks down at them for a second, spreads his arms wide and then when he looks up at the redcaps moving closer, he jerks both his arms up sharply. The hedges, mature hawthorn shrubs, quiver for a moment – and then they start growing up and outward at an alarming rate. I move back, and watch in shocked silence as the branches interlock and weave together and within moments the hip-high hedge has grown to six foot, then seven. And it just keeps on growing, forming an impenetrable defensive shield around the front of the house.

  ‘That is not what I expected,’ Aiden says quietly in my ear and all I can do is nod. ‘Wait – does this make me Sleeping Beauty, with a forest of thorns surrounding my castle? Am I going to prick my finger and fall into a swoon? Who will give me love’s true kiss?’

  I nudge him with my elbow but his words relieve some of the tension. A boom shudders through the house and we all turn to look at towards the back door.

  ‘I locked up,’ I tell Aiden and suddenly I doubt myself. ‘I’m pretty sure I did …’

  We watch the back of the house as Crow steps in through the front door, closing and locking it securely. He presses both hands to the door and grows the wood into what looks like a massive railway sleeper. He looks satisfied with his impromptu fortifications.

  ‘Unless they have a druid with them, the front of the house should hold.’ He brushes past me and heads for the back door. ‘Now, let’s see what else is going on.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Werewolves hold territories, and these territories are where they are strongest. You want to fight a werewolf? You lure him away from where he has the home advantage. You throw him off balance and you take the opportunity to hurt him as much as you can. You don’t attack him in his own lair. That’s just stupidity.

  We’re arrayed on the back porch, staring into the darkness. Even with my enhanced sight, I don’t see anything and apparently neither does Aiden. He growls low in his chest, a questioning sound that trembles through the unexpected quiet of the garden. He cocks his head and steps off the stairs and into the garden, scenting the air. An answering sound comes from the garden’s far side. Something moves there and I get the impression of limbs, long and bone-white; limbs ending with glinting claws. I glimpse a bony face with elongated teeth, but then it’s gone.

  By my side Crow’s posture goes hyperalert.

  Sluagh.

  Maybe he says the word at the same time as I think it, but it’s as if acknowledging the creature gives it shape and form. It lurches from the shadows, gangly limbed, almost laughably unbalanced on backwards bending knees. It has four arms, two of which are actually tentacles, and an awkward hunch. Aiden is fast, but even as he launches into an attack, the sluagh slaps him backwards with a taloned hand, steps towards him and wraps one of its tentacles around his neck. It lifts him high and proceeds to try to squeeze the life out of him.

  I ready myself to run towards him but turn my head just in time to see someone in those ridiculous robes Fae sorcerers favour, like Gandalf-rejects, move towards the house. He gestures at the house and a blast of energy thunders into it. This was not happening, I decide. Not again. Not to my friends’ house. I snarl something but Crow’s hand stills me. He smiles grimly at the sorcerer.

  ‘Two can play at this game. You and the kami go and help the wolf. I’ve got the little magician. We need to shut the gateway before more come through.’

  ‘More?’ My eyes widen as two large armoured Sidhe warriors step from behind the sorcerer. The garden is still too dark and I wonder if they’ve created a cloaking spell to prevent us from seeing them properly. ‘Crow?’ I say over my shoulder, already moving. ‘I’ve plans for my life. I can’t die today.’

  His laughter follows me as I sprint towards Aiden. Behind me Crow leaps off the side of the steps, longbow held in his hands like a staff and he’s swinging it in an elegant arc.

  The sluagh is one thing I’ve never wanted to face. It’s big, ridiculously agile and, once kindled, its appetite for destruction is legendary. I don’t think even the Fae are entirely sure what the sluagh is; they just try to keep it sated and direct it at their enemies until they’re destroyed. Then they clean up the aftermath.

  And right now, it’s in the Garretts’ garden and it’s making a mess of Aiden.

  Dante’s a few steps ahead of me. He has his sword drawn and he looks savage and possibly too excited about getting into a fight. We both run towards the sluagh, which is now bent over a thrashing Aiden, one of its tentacles keeping the boy pushed against the ground, whilst the other tentacle has crept up beneath his shirt and – oh God, it looks like it’s pulsing with something. Aiden’s partially shifted too, fighting hard against the limb choking him. His eyes are a wild electric blue and his hands have warped – I can see the tips of almost-claws curving downwards. He uses these to swipe at the sluagh, but the creature seems unconcerned at coming close to having its throat ripped out.

  The sluagh has its back turned, its limbs moving as it bats at Aiden. I propel myself forward as I leap into the air, kicking myself off one of the decorative rocks that dot the garden. I launch myself at its wide back but, impossibly, it moves, turning to face me. As I’m mid-air, like some scrappy Superman-wannabe, I can’t redirect myself, and it obviously knows that. One of its arms flashes towards me, grabs me around my throat and yanks me forwards – towards its bony face with its flat features and extended teeth. Its eyes are huge and flat, like a shark’s, and within them I read a deep dark satisfaction that chills me completely. It opens its mouth wide and hisses at me. I scream back in defiance. In response, I’m flung to the side and hit one of those damn decorative rocks hard enough to stun me for a few seconds.

  Dante wastes no time in attacking the sluagh. His movements are graceful and considered as he harries the sluagh whilst keeping an eye on Aiden, whose own attacks are becoming weaker by the second. Dante fakes with his blade and ducks beneath that awful arm tipped with black talons. He comes up beneath the sluagh’s guard but, before he can land a blow, the sluagh whips around, twisting its body sideways and out of the way. It wrenches Aiden with it, holds him up with both tentacles now. As I stagger upright, he throws Aiden at Dante and both boys go down hard.

  I run at the monster, ignoring the voice in my head that sounds like Jamie’s, telling me I need strategy, a plan. I’ve never been a strategy girl. I’m all about full-frontal attack and stabbing – until the thing goes down either dead or dying.

  The sluagh straightens and I almost fall back because that hunch is just more spine that’s somehow scrunched up and the thing is at least nine feet tall. As it stretches its neck – which bends impossibly backwards – it lets out the weirdest sound I’ve ever heard. It’s not even audible; it’s more like a wave of sub-sonic energy.

  I can actually feel the wave rush past me before the creature turns to me. Its mouth – maw – opens and I register the rows upon rows of teeth. It grins at me. As if it’s happy to see me. Which is when I hit it with my sword. I flow into a series of strikes and parries of which Jamie would be proud. It feels good being able to use my sword for more than just practice. I lose myself in the movements, trying to anticipate how to get inside the creature’s guard so I can kill it outright.

  There’s a startled scream from near the doors to the house, and horrible cracking noises that sound very much like bones breaking into pieces. But I keep my eyes on the sluagh, which looks as if it might be a little bored. It keeps looking over my shoulder to where Dante’s trying to get Aiden upright.

  The thought that my friend
may be hurt or even dying fuels my anger. I fake a thrust, the sluagh twists, I do another fake thrust, diverting my blade-tip at the very last moment – then I drive it up beneath its guard. But it’s just not there any more. At all. I spin in alarm, right into its attack. It drives a huge fist into my stomach and as I double forward, it’s right there, getting a hand around my neck and lifting me off the ground. The hand squeezes experimentally and I gasp for air, trying to hook my nails into its wrist but it shakes me hard whilst tightening its grip.

  I really hate being thrown around by things bigger than me. I shift the grip on my sword, drive it upwards into the sluagh’s arm and twist the handle. The sluagh blinks confusedly when the blade punctures muscle. It cocks its head, like a dog would when it’s trying to understand something, then blinks at me. It almost looks offended that I’ve managed to land a hit but doesn’t drop me.

  Dante whistles soft and low to attract its attention, and when it turns to look at him, Dante gives an ugly grin. He then punches the monster – the monster even monsters are scared of – in the face. If I had strength left in me I’d laugh, because Dante’s wearing his knuckleduster covered in angelic script.

  The sluagh lets out a shriek and Dante lands another punch, this time using a reverse cut with the blade of his sword to the sluagh’s exposed chest. It’s a risky move, because he could easily have hit me at the same time. But the sluagh keeps me away and slightly to the side, whilst squeezing the life out of me, which ironically keeps me safe from Dante’s attack.

  The sluagh moves, batting at him irritably, and I use the opportunity to lash out with my legs, hoping to hit something, anything, but no such luck. I’m starting to have real problems now with breathing and my vision is going fuzzy at the edges.

  Danger. I’m not sure if I’m the one thinking the word or if someone else in the garden says it – but I can’t help but agree. Yes, danger, so much danger and pain.

  I shake out my fingers, grip my sword again, and with my remaining energy I plunge the blade back into its arm, closer to the wrist this time. I twist hard, feeling bone grate against the blade. Shockingly, the sluagh’s adjusts its grip on me slightly, so it’s even tighter than before. I give up pretending I know how to get myself out of this, because my life is being choked from me.

  Blackness creeps into my vision and it’s a struggle even to breathe through my nose. And God, my nose has started bleeding again! If I don’t die from being choked to death by the sluagh, I’m going to choke to death on my own blood filling my mouth and lungs.

  Dying.

  There’s a vicious snarling noise from close by and I attempt to focus on Aiden, who’s swaying on his feet whilst foolishly trying to get a grip on the sluagh, but the creature is ridiculously agile as it switches and moves in random patterns, evading both him and Dante.

  My oxygen-starved limbs are lethargic as I claw ineffectually at the grip around my neck. I have to do something, anything, or I won’t get out of this alive. A shudder passes through me and I reach desperately for my magic. It hums happily at my summons.

  I make a pathetic noise as I drag my magic forth. The ball of light that forms in the palm of my hand isn’t big but it is bright, neon bright, and I pack my angry intent and desperation into it.

  I pull the sword from the sluagh’s wrist and try to remember how I killed Olga in dragon form. I somehow, impossibly, remember how I stretched my magic and light across the sickle’s blade before lodging it into Olga’s muscular draconic neck. And as my breath runs out, I try to layer my magic onto the blade in my hand.

  I can’t see if it’s worked and I don’t care because I’m so near to blacking out that this will be my last attempt. Gripping the blade in my stronger right hand, I don’t plunge into the sluagh’s arm this time. No, I thrust it forward, sharp point held out front, and drive it towards what I assume is the soft flesh of its flanks and up, hoping to strike a vital organ.

  The blade slides beautifully through the air, it’s a graceful strike and even though I can’t see it, I can feel it’s perfect. And it does nothing. Nothing at all. It somehow misses its mark entirely and I lose all feeling in my hand. I drop the sword just as the sluagh twists, jerking me with him. I can sense him attacking someone in the bunch of his muscles and the way he gracefully moves aside, away from the counter-attack.

  There’s a gasp and groan of pain. The sluagh’s turned enough so that I catch sight of Dante, a hand clasped to his throat and a look of astonishment on his face. The air is thick with the smell of iron and magic as blood spills between his fingers, before his knees give way.

  I futilely reach for him, and the sluagh lets out an exasperated hiss. Another of its hands wraps around my throat and I open my mouth to scream but I’ve got nothing, no air, no energy, nothing.

  My vision’s almost gone completely but I keep focused on Dante, willing him to stand up, to heal, to fight harder.

  My mind feels cast adrift and I blink slowly. Each blink lasts a hundred years as consciousness starts to leave me.

  Kit. Stay with me. I’m almost there.

  Thorn’s voice thunders through me and I jerk, giving a relieved sob and lick my bloody lips. I muster my last resources and force my heavy eyes open to stare down into the strangely calm face of the sluagh. ‘You’d better watch out. My boyfriend’s coming to kick your ass.’ My voice is a dry rasp, but I hope my words are loud enough for Aiden and Dante to hear.

  My vision fades and I drift into unconsciousness, and it is warm and welcoming.

  A thick billow of magic buffets me and the sluagh moves fast and hard, tucking me tighter against its undulating form.

  The garden fills with a bestial roar that shakes me to my bones. Try as I might, my eyes refuse to open, not even when hands pull me from that darkness, lifting me clear. I curl against the person holding me, struggling to find breath when it feels as if my throat’s never going to work properly ever again.

  Another roar rips through the night, a jagged red slash against the darkness. And as the sound escalates, I feel the undeniable pulse of Thorn’s magic soak the air all around us.

  I’ve lost track of the sluagh because there’s too much movement around me, but nothing prepares me for the whistling note of pure fear that must come from its throat. The sound climbs high until it’s piercing my brain and then all sound just stops. For the longest beat. The crack and snap of lightning hitting flesh and bone that follows isn’t as loud – but it is a sound I’ll never forget, not ever.

  The stench of ozone burning, along with the smell of scorched hair and skin, fills my nose. I lean forward and spit blood into the grass at my feet before I throw up.

  ‘I’ve got him. See to Kit,’ Crow’s voice floats towards me. Thorn’s pale face hovers over mine and I force a smile onto my lips.

  ‘Hey,’ I rasp, swallowing with difficulty. ‘You’re here. How did you … ?’

  ‘Shhh. Are you hurt?’ From somewhere he produces a cloth and wipes my face. ‘Kit? Can you hear me?’

  I nod and wince because my head is pounding. ‘Yes. I’m okay, I think. How’s Dante?’

  I struggle upright and for a second I think Thorn’s going to push me back down, but instead he’s helping me upright with careful hands. It feels good to be this close to him, in the aftermath of almost dying. Crow has Dante propped up on a bench against the wall. Dante’s pale and shaking and there’s a vivid diagonal slash across his throat. His ripped shirt shows that the cut ends just below his clavicle. It was a killing slash delivered with intent.

  Crow has both his hands on Dante, one resting against the back of his neck, the other pressed high against his chest, just beneath the cut. Even in the grey darkness, it’s easy to see Dante’s tattoo shifting and reaching for the smooth edges of the wound. The smell of their combined magic is an intoxicating mix of fresh clean air, meadows and sun-drenched forests underpinned by the heavier cinnamon and nutmeg scents I’ve come to associate with Dante dropping his glamour. Thorn’s arm tightens aroun
d me and I lean my head on his shoulder for a second, just appreciating being alive.

  Dante’s eyes find mine and I give him a small smile that he returns. Then Aiden brushes past me to kneel beside Crow in front of Dante.

  Amidst the mess of blood and gore in the garden, in the aftermath of the fight, it feels as if we’ve won. But there’s no doubt in my mind that this was only a skirmish and that bigger things are to come.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Otherwhere, Borderlands of Alba

  The High King of Alba’s left-hand man was worried.

  Oswald paced. He was a man of action and disliked inactivity. Inactivity meant that he had too much time to contemplate failure. He did not appreciate being let down and yet something told him that his men had once again failed in their task. Not one of them had checked in, suggesting they had not succeeded in their attempt to kill the Blackhart and the boy. For the second time.

  The attack in the park had been badly planned. It was an unexpected opportunity, but they hadn’t been ready.

  Convincing the female kami to betray her nephew had not been too difficult. The boy was an unknown quantity and a risk to the stability of the kami as a whole. Being half kami and half Sidhe meant that he could have inherited a vast array of potential problems from either of his parents. And with no training to speak of, his magic could be unstable. Dante could even destroy the kami and all they stood for. Naturally, the bait that she could ascend the throne as the rightful ruler of the kami had swayed her. It would be easy enough to remove the current steward in a clever bit of sleight of hand and install her as the queen.

  Occasionally things went too well. He’d brushed aside her fears and had given her the reassurances she so obviously needed. He merely needed a safe way to get to the girl and the changeling. Arranging for the girl to be taken from the Garretts’ garden and then following the forester’s pathways when he took her back was one of Oswald’s better ideas. The sluagh practically guaranteed a nice bit of mess and death for all concerned. And, to be on the safe side, he’d dispatched one of Aelfric’s sorcerers, two of his trusted Sidhe warriors and a handful of redcaps as back-up. Even if all the wolves had been at home, which he knew they weren’t, these would be enough to demolish the targets.