by Kate Ristau
“That’s reassuring,” Ciaran mumbled.
“The Eta will not harm you,” Keva said.
“You keep saying that,” Ciaran said. “It’s not very convincing.”
Áine ignored him. “It’s settled. We’re going.” She kicked her feet, headed toward the surface.
“Fine!” Ciaran said. “I’m going too. But we’re getting the dryads first.”
Áine glanced back at him. “They won’t help us.”
“They will,” Ciaran said. “And we need to get the kids anyway.”
She broke the surface of the water and gasped for air, but her throat closed up. It wouldn’t come. Her nose and mouth burned, and her throat squeezed tight—and then released. Áine coughed and spit, wiping the river from her eyes, breathing, breathing, then looked up toward the riverbank.
She rubbed her eyes again, but the scene stayed the same.
It was lifeless. Dead. And the water in the river—it was lower than she had ever seen it.
“The Eta—” she began.
“I sent them away,” Keva said. The lily had slipped from her mouth and was sliding down to rest against her chest.
“Cra,” Ciaran said, the last of the lily jerking out of his nose.
Keva swam away from him, heading toward the barren sands.
They followed her to the shore. Áine’s arms ached, and her legs were unsteady as she slogged through the mud. How long had they been under? The water dripped from her clothes onto the sandy beach.
Ciaran shook, rubbing his nose and trying to get the water out of his ears. “We’re never going to get dry. I hate the water. Hate it.”
A few remaining Eta spun around Keva, wicking the water from her clothes. “You hate too much,” she said.
“I hate not hating,” Ciaran replied.
“Come on,” Áine said. “We had better get going before Tiddy finds us.”
A cloud formed on the bank beside them. “You mean me?”
“Cra,” Ciaran said, and his hand burst into flame.
“Stop,” Keva said. “This is not the time. Come, Tiddy Mun. I will talk, and you will listen.”
Keva walked ahead, and Tiddy threw a hard glare at them. Áine stepped toward him, and Ciaran tossed a ball of flame into the air. Tiddy faded and reappeared in the forest next to Keva.
Áine watched him fade to gray. “He’s going to do it again.”
Ciaran shook his head. “I don’t think he could. She’s made her choice, and she seems a little bit stubborn—like someone else I know.”
“I’m not stubborn,” she said. Ciaran raised his eyebrows, and she laughed. “Okay. I’m a little bit stubborn.”
Áine glanced down the riverbank. It was empty—no Eta, no naiads, no pixies, nothing. “Where is everyone?” she asked, following Keva up the forest path. It was empty. Everyone was gone. “Are they still at the Clearing?”
“Maybe, but they were gone from this side way before that. Eri really pissed off the water sprites. And the naiads. And Lir. And the Queenseguard.”
“What?” Áine asked. Her feet stuck to the pine needles. “When?”
“Cra, I didn’t tell you. You should have seen her. She was incredible. The Queenesguard—they were running their patrols through the Barrows, and you know, Eri was a little angry about you leaving…”
“A little?”
“She burned up Duende Lake. Sucked the water clean out of it.”
The waters of Duende Lake ran behind the Barrows for miles. The river crashed into the lake at Niamane’s Waterfall.
That was why the river was so empty, and the current so fast. It was filling up the lake. “How did she do it?”
“Hether if I know,” Ciaran said. “And I’m fire fey. She was so angry when you left. She had me cleaning the hearth, watching Minka and Rashkeen and Saroo. She wouldn’t let me out of her sight, but I wasn’t saying nothing to her, and no one was going near her—until the Queenesguard showed up. They stomped through the lavender, arms waving, swords clanging, and you could see the Eta shining in her eyes. She told me to take the kids and get out of there. Then the rest of the guard showed up.”
“What happened?” Áine asked.
“I saw it from the ridge,” Ciaran smiled. “Remember that thing I can do with the grass?”
“Stop bragging.”
“That’s not the point. She did it with the ground. With the trees. She stretched the earth, and it cracked beneath them. It was like what happened in the Shadowlands. But bigger. More powerful. It was legendary.”
Áine remembered how the earth had opened up. How Creed had fallen in, his hands reaching into the air and finding only her anger.
Eri had awoken the same power.
“We left before she finished,” Ciaran said. “We had to. The guards were streaming in, and the Goats Heads too.”
Áine jerked her head toward Ciaran. “Why were they in the Barrows?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It was more than a patrol. They were getting ready for a battle. They were in full armor. They—”
His head snapped to look down the bank, and that’s when Áine heard it. “Banshee,” she whispered.
Seventeen
The pale-green light rose from the horizon like trees blazing with emerald fire. It was strange and wonderful, and so close. But the creatures were even closer.
She turned to fight them again, her hands clenching the long, thin spear.
It was all so wrong. There were so many of them—they came on endlessly—but the light was getting brighter, and they were moving more slowly. She still had a chance. They clung to the shadows, avoiding the glare from the ethereal trees. They were frightened of her spear—it burned them with a single slice. They were losing their cover. The light was growing brighter, and the shadows were pulling back, disappearing over the ridge.
She yanked her phone out of the top of her pocket: 3 percent. Almost gone. She shut off the flashlight to save the battery, hoping the pale light would be enough.
She watched one lone creature trudging toward her. The rest held back.
One more. This would be the last. Then she was heading into the light.
It looked like a bear, clomping forward on two legs, its skin made of scales or some kind of beetle stuff. It left behind a trail of inky black. She couldn’t tell what it was and really didn’t care. She just wanted it to go away.
“What do you want?” she yelled.
It tilted its black head at her, massive legs sloshing through the mud. “Hungry,” it growled. Face scrunched up in pain, it moved forward.
More creatures climbed down the ridge. They crashed into each other, kicking and struggling, the pale light reflecting off their shadowy forms. They ignored her, fighting each other, vicious and unrelenting.
She stepped closer to the light until it shone in a circle around her feet. She leaned on her good leg and held up her spear to her right, ready to strike.
The creature raised its hand and shaded its eyes from the light. “Hungry,” it grumbled. It stood there for a long moment, its black eyes open, but empty. So empty. Then it turned back toward the struggle at the ridge.
Scraping, tearing of claws. Grunts, groans, and screeches. She shivered as she backed into the light. It all felt so impossible.
They fought on, attacking and retreating, cowering from the light. They roared in the shadows.
“Hungry,” she repeated. They howled and lunged at each other.
Was that why they were fighting? Because they were hungry? Hennessy peered up at the ridge. Besides the creatures, it was black and utterly empty. Just lumps and bulges, mud and bones. Nothing to eat, nothing to drink.
Hungry. No wonder they were fighting. No wonder they wanted to tear out her everything. How long had they been like this?
She took a deep breath and turned back toward the bright-green glow. “Okay,” she whispered. She slowed her breathing, tried to slow the wild beat of her heart. “Okay. So—”
&nb
sp; A sudden cry, like that of an injured puppy, broke the air. She spun around, and then she saw it, tumbling down the hill. A tiny creature, barely the size of a kitten or puppy. It yelped as it landed in the dirt.
She watched it try to get to its feet, then collapse. Her hands clenched the spear, and her mouth went dry. The bigger creatures would tear it apart.
They came down the ridge like the Grady boys, all legs and arms and anger. And something inside her snapped and split open. All of the fear disappeared, and she broke into a limping run, headed straight for the fight she had been leaving behind. She ran to the creature, tumbled through the mud, and grabbed it in her hands. It whimpered as she tucked it under her arm and spun back around. She tripped and fell, scrambled through the mud, and then used the spear to push up from the ground. She vaulted toward the light.
They roared and rushed behind her, claws scraping her clothes, knocking the backs of her legs, but she pushed forward, didn’t look back—she couldn’t. She had to move forward, had to get past them, through the pain and into the light.
Her feet broke the pale-green glow, and she sloshed forward, the world ablaze in brilliance. The creatures roared and fell back, and the tiny puppy mewled under her arm. She pulled it out and held it up. It clawed away from the light, biting and scratching at her fingers.
Nope. Not a puppy. Not even a little bit. Not at all.
It was as if a dog had mated with a cockroach and the baby was then eaten by a dragon.
But it was cute. In its own way.
“Ouch!” Hennessy said, pulling it off her hand. It scrambled and shifted and slid up her arm. She tucked it inside her hoodie in the sort of pocket behind the real pocket, and it finally stilled, all scale and bone against her ribs.
She looked down at her hand, reflecting red and green in the ethereal light.
“Rabies,” she said. “I have rabies. Or the plague. Probably the black death.” She stared at the rocks, which had turned to broken trees along the side of the path. “I’m going to die. I’m probably already dead.”
She laughed, and the moment she stopped, the sound echoed back at her, soft and chilling.
But it wasn’t her voice. And she wasn’t alone.
She could hear a quiet whisper, like wind through the leaves of the trees, but these trees were barren and lifeless. Dead—their leaves long gone. But still, something whispered on. She followed the line of shining trees. Where was the light coming from? The tree branches were dead and empty. Even still, the light flowed from within them, pulling her in and pushing against the darkness. The mud loosened beneath her feet, turning to mush, and then the ground became a shallow pool. She stepped in, following a path through the trees. The water lapped against her boots but stayed as deep as a puddle.
Her hoodie snagged on a tree branch, ripping and tearing. The puppy creature in her pocket yelped, and she hushed it as she stopped to pull her hoodie free. She grabbed the branch, then her breath caught in her throat. No. It couldn’t be. She stared hard at the trunk of the tree.
Eyes. Nose. Lips.
A face. In the tree.
Eighteen
“Keva!” Áine yelled.
She had taken off with Tiddy, away from the forest path and down along the riverbank, running toward the sound of the wailing. Áine followed, panic rising in her chest. She bolted toward them with Ciaran panting behind her.
She ran up to the river, then cut along the bank, her heart beating in her throat. The river beside her flowed red—long streaks of blood swirling on the current.
Tiddy Mun’s mist hit her face. She pushed her way into his fog, wailing filling her ears. Screaming, keening, aching, moaning.
The sound of grief. The sound of death.
Áine waved the mist away, and stepped toward her sister, who was crouched in the mud.
The banshee was writhing beside her, pale gray robes falling down into the water. Her hands sliced into the current while she was moaning and crying; then she pulled out a cloak covered in blood. The red dripped down into the water, and she keened, her mouth stretched widely in an ear-splitting scream.
The sound struck Áine’s ears, then sank down into her stomach. She held her breath and looked toward the forest’s edge.
She could still run away. She didn’t need to know. Didn’t need to see.
None of them did.
Ciaran stopped beside her, panting, putting his hands on his knees. “Oberon, how did you even run that fast? It’s not even—”
His voice dropped as he stared down at the banshee.
“That’s mine,” he whispered. He shook his head. “That’s my cloak. How did she get it? Why is it—” His voice dropped again, and the banshee’s scream tore through Áine as Ciaran fell to his knees. “It’s not,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”
He fell forward and ripped the cloth from the banshee’s hand, dipping his fingers into the water and the blood. The banshee’s eyes rose to meet his, and her scream dissipated into the mist, even though her mouth hung wide open.
“Mom?” he said.
Her mouth twisted and pulled closed. Her eyes brightened, and the gray fell away. It was her. It was Ciaran’s mother.
Áine had never seen her, but she could see him in the lines of her face, in the bend of her jaw. His mother.
“You died,” Ciaran said.
“I know you,” she said. Her voice was the wind, scraping across the willow. “I have seen your face. In the darkness.”
“Mom,” Ciaran repeated, pulling the cloak to his chest.
“You will fight for them,” the banshee said. “You will fight for all of them. But who will fight for you?”
“I’m not a warrior,” Ciaran said, twisting the cloak between his fingers.
She stood suddenly and stepped out into the water. Keva touched the gentle waves around her legs.
“Wait!” Ciaran yelled after her. “Please! Don’t leave. I need you.”
“You do not need me. Not anymore.” Her gray robes floated around her as she moved into the deeps.
Ciaran crawled toward the water’s edge. “That can’t be it. You can’t just go. There must be something. Something.”
She turned back toward Ciaran, her mouth unhinged, then looked past him, her icy silver eyes falling on Áine. “There is a choice. There is always a choice. But what will she choose? Shadows. Always shadows. And death. It follows in her wake.” Her head twisted back toward Ciaran at an unnatural angle. “You should leave now. Take the children. Head north. Out of the mist. Out of the darkness. Before the long night.”
Her legs stretched into the water, gliding further down into the deeps. Keva hummed softly, digging her fingers into the mud, splashing the water against her knees.
Áine wished she could run, run into the forest. Run far away from the banshee’s words. Ciaran’s cloak. Those eyes.
Ciaran was making a strange noise, still down on his hands and knees. Áine watched the banshee’s head disappear underneath the water. Her hair floated around her, then slipped away. Gone back into the deeps.
Áine stretched out her fingers, and gently, she lifted her hand toward Ciaran, placing it on his shoulder. He flinched, then rose to his knees. His hands, covered in mud, held up his soaking wet cloak. “So much blood. Can you see it? It’s not even possible.”
“It’s not all yours,” Keva said.
“Whose is it then?” Ciaran asked. His face was blank, his eyes unseeing. “And how do you know?”
“I know that blood. It was once full of the Eta. It is mine. The rest belongs to Rashkeen. But it is not your fault, Ciaran. I forgive you.” Keva pushed her fingers down into the mud.
“Forgive me?” Ciaran asked. “For what?” he asked, his voice cracking and straining. “I haven’t even done anything. There’s nothing to forgive.”
Áine’s mouth was dry. She closed it, licking her lips. Her breath tasted like leaves.
She turned back up toward the path, but Ciaran grabbed her arm. “Look a
t me, Áine,” he said, his voice on the edge of darkness. Áine turned back toward him but refused to meet his eye. She couldn’t. What would she say? She stared off into the water, where the banshee had gone under. “I would never hurt her,” he said, his voice trembling. “I would never hurt any of them.”
“But I would hurt you,” Áine said. “Don’t you understand? I have. And I will. She said so. Didn’t you hear?”
Ciaran didn’t deny it. He just turned back toward the water. Áine followed his eye and stared out into the deeps. The water was calm, flat and still. Had it even happened?
It had. His cloak dripped in his hand.
“I need to go,” he said slowly.
“Where?” Áine asked.
“You heard her. North. I’ll get the kids from the dryads. Minka. Saroo. Rashkeen.” His voice caught on her name.
“North,” Keva repeated, her hand stuck in the mud. “Find the hooded crow.”
Ciaran turned on her. “You know,” he said. “You can see it all. So tell me. Rashkeen.”
“I only see what the Eta see.”
“But how do I save her?”
“Your brother—”
“Is a bastard,” Ciaran spat out. “A liar. A murderer. I never want to see him again.”
“I thought you wanted to talk to him?” Áine said.
“I wanted to kill him. I wanted to rip his throat out. I wanted him to pay for what he did. To me. To her.” He pointed out to the river. The waters had gone still.
“You will need him,” Keva said. “And the trees. But beware of Ratrael. He takes a different path than you.”
Áine started at his name, but Ciaran just kept staring off toward the water. “My mother was the only good thing. The warmth. The light. She held her fire inside her, keeping us warm. And Kian and Creed—they killed her. Her death is all they are to me.”
Keva rose and kicked the water with her foot. It sprayed through the air, staying suspended for a moment longer than it should have before splashing down again. “Life,” she said. “He does not have much left, that one. You call him Kian, but he is a demon, gone mad. He has been fighting off the Eta too long. They do not like him. And the shadows flee his flames. But you will need him. In the end.”