Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  Taking a step toward her, he was stopped by Zeriphel’s vise-like grip.

  “No!” It was Bran.

  On the other side of the circle Liam counted four more Fallen dressed as BAs. Two of them were restraining Bran. At least, Liam assumed that was what they were. Like Zeriphel, their faces were burned black and all stank of an abandoned slaughterhouse. The monster frenzied in his skull at the sight of them. Liam’s stomach dropped somewhere near his ankles.

  Why the fuck did Bran come here alone? What was he thinking? Liam kept his expression blank. He didn’t want to give the Redcap anything else to be happy about.

  Pacing a circle, the Red cap said, “How nice of you to accept my invitation, dog.” He spit on the ground. “Ready for more?”

  “What the fuck is it you want from me?” Liam asked.

  The Redcap punched him in the already battered stomach three times in rapid succession. Liam collapsed to his knees, the breath driven out of him.

  “You speak when I say you can,” the Redcap said.

  “Fuck you,” Liam said, gasping.

  The Redcap kicked him, the toe of his steel-capped boot landing in Liam’s bruised stomach. Zeriphel released Liam’s arm, and he fell face-first on the grass. Jesus, that fucking hurts.

  “You really should be more respectful,” the Redcap said.

  Liam shuddered and coughed, fighting to get enough air. He could hear his mother screaming from behind her gag. Landing another kick, the Redcap’s boot connected with Liam’s ribs, and he felt something snap just before another explosion of pain. He bit back a scream. Fucking hell!

  “For Christ’s sake, leave him alone,” Father Murray said.

  “Wait your turn, priest,” the Redcap said. “An alliance between the Roman Catholic Church and the Fey? That idea alone deserves special punishment. As for you, little brother…”He moved closer, and Liam flinched. “It’s time to answer a few questions you no doubt have, William. I think we’ll start with an introduction.” He laid a hand on his chest. “I, am Henry Sanders.”

  Liam coughed and the answering pain reminded him to be very careful.

  Sanders?

  “I see you recognize the surname. You don’t know me, but I very much know you. My friends have been watching you.” He leaned down. “Let’s start our chat with names. You’ve heard the legend surrounding names and the ah… Fair Folk?” The Redcap— No, Henry—asked, spitting out the last two words with disgust. “It would seem there’s some truth in it.”

  Liam wrapped a protective arm around his ribs and straightened. He remained on his knees, anticipating another kick if he moved any farther.

  What the fuck is he on about?

  “I understand you speak Irish,” Henry said. “Foul language, if you can call it that. It’s entirely made up, you see. Still, that’s not pertinent to the current discussion.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Liam said, “just kill me and get it over with.”

  When Henry finally stopped kicking he smoothed his hair. “Do not interrupt. You’ll ruin the pace of the narrative.”

  Liam couldn’t find oxygen for ten heartbeats, and each time he coughed his ribs ground together, sending a flash of white hot pain through his body.

  “Now, where was I?” Henry paused. “Ah, yes. Irish. Do you know the Irish word for ‘name,’ William?”

  Spitting to clear his mouth, Liam wanted to tell him to sod off but didn’t think he could stand another beating.

  “Answer me,” Henry said.

  One of the Fallen BAs bent down and pushed at Liam’s ribs. Blinding agony blasted him. “Jesus! Oh, fuck!”

  “Not the answer I’m looking for,” Henry said. “Do try a little harder.” He swung back his leg.

  “It fucking depends on what kind of name you want!”

  “The word for ‘name.’ Only that.”

  “Ainm! It’s fucking ainm!”

  “Very good,” Henry said, lowering his foot. “Now you’re playing the game. Next, give me the word for ‘soul.’”

  Liam swallowed. “Anam.”

  “‘Ainm’ and ‘anam.’ They sound very much alike. Don’t they?” Henry asked. “Yes, they do. In Irish, of course. English is far more complex. We aren’t as… simple. Do you see where this is going, William? The relation between ‘soul’ and ‘name’?”

  Liam was getting really fucking tired of the lecture.

  “Interesting thing. They say it only works if you’re given the name by the person who owns it. But that isn’t entirely true.” Henry stooped closer. “It seems that it also works if you’re given the name by the person who created it. In this case a parent. A… mother.”

  “What?” The word fell out of Liam’s mouth before he could catch it.

  “At this point a spot of history is in order, I’m afraid,” Henry said. “Let’s go back to—”

  “History?” Bran asked. “A falsehood, you mean. Invented to control you, madman.”

  Henry paused while the Fallen punched the urge for further commentary out of Bran. When they stopped Henry flashed his sharp teeth in a hate filled grimace offered in the place of a patient smile. “Let’s go back to 1555. The heretic Mary the First was on the throne. May she rot in Hell. Three hundred Protestants were burned at the stake during her three-year reign. My father was among the first. At least, I thought he was my father. Only I wasn’t right was I?”

  Liam could hear his mother crying.

  “That’s a lie!” Bran gasped and fought his captors.

  “No one cares, dog,” Zeriphel said. His eyes flashed red, and Liam felt a shimmer of power in the air. “Belief, fear and hatred are what move this world. Nothing else.”

  “My mother was executed because of her association with that man.” Pointing at Bran, Henry’s eyes burned with the conviction of a crazed fanatic. “They said she was in league with the devil. Because of him. He raped her and left her to deal with the consequences—the rumors. Just as he did your dear mother, William. Have you figured it out yet? We’re brothers, you and I? How does that make you feel?”

  Liam heard his mother sob.

  “I have never crossed to England,” Bran said, turning to her. “Even if I had I’d never do such a thing. You must believe me.”

  “So sincere. So earnest,” Henry said. “But you’ve heard it all before, haven’t you, William?” He turned to Zeriphel. “Unlock one wrist. Leave the other.”

  Liam’s right arm was wrenched upward, taking the left with it. He cried out as the shoulder joint nearly popped out of its socket. His right wrist was freed and then released. Panting, he rubbed the prickling chill out of his arm.

  “Stand, William Ronan Kelly,” Henry said.

  Power shivered in the air, and before Liam knew it he’d scrambled to his feet.

  “Good. So very good,” Henry said. The calm tone didn’t match his eyes, sanity clearly having left the area some time ago.

  Liam looked to Zeriphel and understood who was actually in charge. Henry is wrong. The Fallen don’t need names to manipulate. Only a weakness. And no matter what Henry thinks, he isn’t immune to that. None of us fucking are.

  “We’ve both suffered at the hands of our father, you know. A father who will admit no wrong. He left you exposed to dangers just as he abandoned me.”

  Sanders, Liam thought with a shudder. The Kesh. The guard’s name was Philip Sanders. Was there a connection?

  Henry reached for Liam’s left wrist and produced a handcuff key. “He isn’t the only one who betrayed you. There is also the priest. He kept so much from you. He was sent to kill you, you know.” He placed the key inside the lock. “William Ronan Kelly, you’ve a great deal to be angry about when you think about it. Let’s start with Mary Kate, shall we?”

  Another wave of oppressive energy tingled in the air, making Liam gasp. Underneath it all burned the rage. He breathed in the electric current with care and allowed it to settle into his aching chest. It prickled down both of his arms and legs. Another fucking
Sanders.

  “The priest wanted your wife to die,” Henry said. “He practically led those men to her. Do you know why?”

  At the mention of Mary Kate the monster became unhinged, and roars for release filled Liam’s skull to bursting. He fought the tide of rage but it was as useless as fighting a storm.

  “Because his Church didn’t want her to bear you any children—children classified as demons.”

  “What?” Now it was Bran who was incensed.

  “It isn’t how it was at all,” Father Murray said. “I married them. I told the bishop that Liam was different.” He continued with his explanation, but the words faded into the background.

  The Redcap is the fourth man, the monster thought. Smell.

  Sniffing, Liam caught the stench of old blood and nodded.

  “They enjoyed their work, William. They bragged. Talked about how sweet she was. How she screamed for more. Three men.”

  Four, Liam thought, revulsion and rage rising in the back of his throat. There were four. Not three. It was you. And you’ll pay with the rest.

  “How she liked it.”

  You like it. I can feel it.

  No!

  Another Sanders. How?

  “Each took their turn at your wife. Can you imagine what that was like? You can, can’t you? Who better than you?”

  “Don’t.” Ice-cold terror pinned Liam and he had to force the word over a numb tongue. The handcuff popped off his left wrist. The tingling under his skin instantly became unbearable. He doubled over. Wrath would warp his bones and burn his skin. There was no stopping it.

  “He could’ve gotten you out, you know,” Henry said. “Our father. He visited the prison, didn’t he?”

  The wolfhound. An image from the Kesh drifted to the surface amongst the chaos roiling of his mind. A wolfhound in no man’s land—the area between the fences—had not been possible. Some part of him had known it then even though he hadn’t given it much thought.

  “Ahhhh, yes,” Henry said. “He could have prevented it.” “What is he saying?” Bran asked. Liam dropped to his knees. Not this. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, please. Not this.

  “Yes.” Henry leaned close and whispered, “I know. Because I sent him to you. Philip Sanders was a descendant. And he told me everything before he died. Everything. Should I tell them?”

  “No!” Shut him up. NOW! Kill him before it’s too late. Liam tasted dirt before he realized he was down. Scents and sensation flooded in as the monster took charge. Bones rippled beneath his skin—even the broken ones. The world was agony, shame and rage, and nothing else.

  “Take your revenge, William Ronan Kelly,” Henry said. “I compel you.”

  Yes. Kill them all, the monster howled. Everyone. Kill.

  In the chaos he heard singing. The tune was distant but powerful—beautiful and profane. The air grew thick. Sounds became muffled as if trapped inside a bubble. The humiliating lack of self-control made Liam feel sick and disgusted. Mortified. By the time the monster got to its feet—paws—Henry and the Fallen had retreated outside the stone circle, leaving Bran, Father Murray and his mother inside. The monster charged at Henry, slamming into what felt like a solid wall.

  Henry clicked his tongue in contempt. “Púcas. Not very bright, I’m afraid.”

  The monster leapt up to lunge at Henry a second time and once more met with that invisible wall. Dazed, Liam was able to wrest some control from the monster.

  “You’re trapped inside, you cretin. And there you will remain until I’m done with you,” Henry said. “Kill them. You can’t refuse. You can’t even resist. I possess your full name as spoken by your mother. William Ronan Kelly. I hereby invoke it.”

  The monster whirled, panting. Its whole body trembled with Liam’s efforts to resist.

  You don’t have all of me, Liam shouted at Henry from the back of the monster’s brain. Ma didn’t tell you everything. The thought was like a beam of sunlight in the darkness. I am William Ronan Monroe Kelly. It is a small difference, but I’m still my own. Nonetheless, Liam wasn’t sure how long he could defy the order.

  The others had grouped together for safety. Father Murray held out the crucifix of his rosary, terrified. In his other hand he had an open bottle of what Liam thought might be holy water. The cork was in one corner of his mouth. The monster thought he looked ridiculous. Bran—father—had positioned himself in front of Liam’s mother as if to shield her. His hands

  were trapped together in steel cuffs but raised in defense.

  “Won’t.” He doesn’t have my soul. Think. There has to be a way out, Liam thought. Something he hasn’t planned for.

  “I said kill them! I invoke your name!”

  The monster roared and for a moment Liam was blind, but he could taste salty warm blood.

  Liam thought, I will not do this.

  I can. And I will, the monster thought back. You don’t deserve to live. You’re weak. Nothing. Threaten me, will you? I’ll bury you so far, so deep in the dark you’ll fade into memory. Then I’ll see to them. I’ll do for them all. And I’ll be forever free of you.

  Liam was shoved under the surface of a midnight bog and rapidly sank in its cold depths. Frantic, he battled against it but couldn’t find purchase. Worse, the more he struggled the more he sank. I’m the stronger one. Down and down. Deeper. Die. The monster’s voice followed him, pushing him farther. I stopped Sanders. Not you. Liam choked. You’re weak. Didn’t even fight. You would’ve let him—Liam was smothered with shame—do it again. You don’t deserve to live. The increasing weight of blackness squeezed the will from him. You’re nothing. An incongruent sense of peace crept in. If he let go, the humiliation would fade with him. Die. He drifted, welcoming the numbness now. He didn’t want to remember anymore. And with nothing to anchor him, he began to lose all sense of time.

  A whisper penetrated the dark. “Liam.”

  He floated, listening.

  “Liam, please. It’s me.” It was a woman’s voice. A beam of light appeared. It was dim and weak. He flung out a hand toward it and felt an almost imperceptible warmth. Her words pulled him upward until he could see through the monster’s eyes once more. She was speaking, but he didn’t know her. She looked frightened, and her face was streaked with tears.

  “This isn’t you,” she said.

  The monster paused.

  “Kathleen, get behind me!” It was the tall one. The one he’d bitten.

  The sire, the monster thought.

  She didn’t move. “Please, Liam.”

  Staring at the woman, Liam’s gaze traveled the length of her body in an attempt to understand who or what she was. She was wearing a brown coat and a blue dress underneath. Torn stockings. Shoes.

  The image of a woman’s empty shoe resting on pavement emerged from deep memory.

  Never again. The words echoed with power within his skull. I am William Ronan Monroe Kelly. And I will not do this. I will not cross that line. I can stop you. I’ve done it before.

  The monster’s skin crawled and shifted. It raged against the change, the sensation making him nauseous. Liam blinked, swaying on his feet. When he was sure of himself he whirled and sprinted to the edge of the circle and again was met with that invisible wall. He picked himself up and shook his head to clear it. There’s a way out. Think.

  The woman was screaming. All was chaos. It was difficult to form coherent ideas beyond the compulsion to rip and tear.

  Out. Must get out. Break the circle. He ran again, throwing his shoulder against it, and smacked into one of the stones. The impact registered but not the pain—the impact and a subtle wobble.

  The stone.

  Liam wrapped his arms around the limestone block and put all his fury into forcing it from the ground. When it didn’t budge he backed up and charged it again. The stone moved several inches. Ignoring what seemed a million hurts and the monster’s protests, he flung himself at it a third time with everything he had. Something in his shoulder snapped, and he screame
d in frustration and agony.

  The stone block toppled, dredging up dark chunks of damp earth with it.

  A shadow leapt over him and was gone. A war-cry shouted in Irish echoed through the trees and was answered by the clatter of drawn swords. There were other shouts, fighting. He lay half-in and half-out of the circle, unable to move. Agony equal to what he’d felt in the cave tore through him, leaving him empty as it passed—vacant but for the dull and heavy throbbing in his shoulder. Still the beast in his brain frenzied. Liam grew more and more tired of fighting it. He yearned for that sense of peace. He was going to black out, he knew. Nothing mattered anymore.

  A cool hand smoothed the hair from his face and that woman’s voice called him again. “What have you done to yourself? Stay with me. Please.”

  Hands shoved a rectangle of steel into his palm. Cold burned his skin and then the pain and confusion became bearable. The monster’s roars receded. Liam looked into his hand. The lighter. For a moment he wondered who would’ve thought to do such a thing, but the clash of battle took his attention to the outside of the circle.

  It seemed Bran hadn’t shown up alone after all—or at least not without a plan. A large group of men armed with bronze-tipped spears and swords had charged from the woods, ambushing the Fallen. As Liam watched, Zeriphel leapt an impossible fifteen feet into the air. Ragged black wings sprang from the hump on his back and spread wide. Then a bronze spear arched up, striking him with such force that it not only went right through him, it drove him into a tree and impaled him there. He screeched and squirmed like a pinned insect. The sight of Zeriphel clawing his way up the shaft was horrific, and Liam turned away. He spied Bran in the midst of the fray, wielding a sword two-handed in spite of the cuffs that bound his wrists together. Sceolán was at his side and both had backed the blond BA against another tree.