The next second Kali's skinny arms slip around both of us, and we all just stand there.
I'm not good right now. In fact, I'm falling apart.
But with my family here, and with time, someday I will be okay again.
19
AWAKE
Aislinn
I'm alone when I wake.
I'm in a concrete cell, but it's clear that someone has tried to make it more comfortable, less like a prison. There are thick, soft rugs, large pieces of art, a lamp, and a small table with a chair and writing materials, a few books. There's an artificial tree in one corner, too— such a good imitation that I would think it was real except for the absence of any sunlight. The bed I'm lying on is double-wide, deep and soft, piled with plush bedding fit for a hotel.
It's the door that gives the room away as a prison. I can tell it's solid metal, and the massive hinges and locking mechanism won't be yielding to my fenodyree strength.
My head feels clearer, although my muscles ache from supporting Kieran—
Kieran. Where is he? What are they doing to him?
What if they kill him, just when I'm understanding what he means to me? I can't bear the thought, and my eyes start to sting.
Suddenly I hear something— a very faint, metallic hum. There's a camera up in the top corner of my room, and it's moving slowly, adjusting itself to focus on me as I stand at the door.
I step toward it, fists clenched. "Where is the Far Darrig? Why are you keeping us here?"
There's no answer, of course. But hopefully whoever is on the other end of that camera will head my way soon.
For now, I really have to use the bathroom. Except that there isn't one— just a toilet in a corner of the room, with some toilet paper and a bottle of hand sanitizer. No way am I using that with some creep watching me through a camera.
But the need gets more urgent, so I rig up a kind of half wall with the table, chair, pillows and tree. I have barely enough time to finish my business when the door unlocks.
One of the druids walks in. I whisper "Láidreacht " and throw the table at him with all my strength. He's knocked off his feet, head clunking against the concrete wall.
I'm out the door in a second, murmuring a protective spell and tracing a ward on my chest. A ward without a binding agent only lasts a few minutes, but it should be enough to protect me against spell-wielders in the hallway.
But instead of a spell, I'm met with the barrel of a gun.
I freeze.
I don't have any powers or spells to stop a bullet.
"Effective, isn't it?" says Malcolm, still aiming the gun at me.
Malcolm, the fake investigator. The druid.
"I warned James about you," he says, nodding toward the unconscious man lying in the doorway of my cell. "I told him to be ready. He's a fool. Most druids of the lower order are pesky fools. Just humans, trying to play with magic. Those of us in the higher orders— we actually work magic."
"You're a higher order druid?"
"Indeed. Order of the Vates."
The Vates? That was the druid order that conducted human sacrifices in the old days. I suppress a shiver.
"Now are you going to cooperate and act like a guest, or do I need to bind you?" says Malcolm.
I hate being bound. "I'll cooperate." For now. "If you answer me one question. Where is the Far Darrig?"
He smirks. "See, this is what I don't understand," he says, rubbing his shiny forehead with his free hand. "You told us you didn't know where he was— and at first we believed you. But in the past two weeks, we've received multiple reports of you two being seen together at Fae gatherings; and then you show up here to help him escape. At first you were all, 'I have no idea where he is, good riddance,' and now you're all, 'where is he? where is he?' " He imitates me with a pathetic, shrill whine.
"First, I don't sound like that," I say. "And second, he's my friend. I want to know that he's all right."
"All right is relative," Malcolm says, smiling. "He's alive."
"Can I see him?"
He narrows his eyes at me. "You know, we may have been going about this thing all wrong. It seems the two of you have a connection. A relationship?"
I snort in mock disgust. "Never. He had my parents killed."
"So you say." There's a shrewd look in his eyes. "But my three brothers who saw you in the corridor earlier mentioned something interesting— the Far Darrig trying to shield you, offering himself if we let you go. A foolish gesture, but possibly meaningful. You may be able to help us."
"Not likely."
"Still, let's go have a chat with the others, shall we?" He waves me forward with the gun. "Walk ahead, and I'll follow. It would be foolish to try any tricks, little Korrigan."
He takes me to another level, higher up, to a long room that looks like some sort of conference room, with a massive polished wooden table down the center. Again, all along the walls, I notice carvings, etchings, paintings and prints of Celtic knots and ancient runes, some framed, some painted right onto the walls like graffiti. The street-art style contrasts weirdly with the uptight, traditional furnishings of the room— all heavy, varnished, dark wood and thick upholstery.
Several men sit on either side of the long table, and near the end I notice some women as well— two of them I don't know. But one is June, the "investigator," and another is—
"Maeve." I'm shocked. For a second I think she may be here to help me.
"You should have left her down there longer, Malcolm," Maeve says sharply. "We still have matters to discuss."
"He answers to me, Maeve, not you," says one of the druids. He's surprisingly young, maybe late twenties, with ginger hair, a long nose, and pale eyes. Like a rat from an Irish sewer.
"I have a suggestion," Malcolm says. "It appears Maeve hasn't told us everything. This girl and the Far Darrig have a romantic connection of some kind."
"Is this true?" Rat-Face asks me.
"No, of course not," I say, trying to sound indignant.
He turns to Maeve.
"It's possible," she says. "But she has a boyfriend, a human pup called Zane."
"We broke up," I say quickly, to protect him. "He's old news. By the way, how are you, Grandmother?"
Her eyes spark. She hates it when I call her that.
"How is Arden?" she spits back. "When we're done with you, I'm planning to teach her a few things about treachery and its consequences."
"Enough," says the Rat. "Aislinn, your arrival here is a little premature. Your capture was planned for a little further ahead in the schedule— about a week from now. Thank goodness we had runes in place to prevent her transporting, right?" He smiles at the other druids. "Otherwise she would have stolen our prize, and we would have had to go through the trouble of capturing the Far Darrig all over again."
"I don't suppose he made it easy for you," I say, smirking with satisfaction.
"No, but he was low on power, so we made quick work of him. And we didn't expect anyone to come looking for him— least of all you. How do you explain that?"
I shrug. "He helped me get my powers. I owed him a favor."
"That's it? Nothing else?"
"Nothing at all," I say. Why are all these people staring at me and asking me about my love life? Shouldn't they be dipping their knives in blood or urine and making weird animal sacrifices to improve their already fat stock portfolios?
"She's lying," says Maeve. "She's a little liar, just like her mother, running after men like a sow to slop."
"Both of you, quiet!" The Rat's voice is high and sharp. "It's time to get on with the stripping. We can do it in the Far Darrig's dungeon if you think it will have an effect on him. Chuck is running out of ways to soften his will with beatings. We'll have to start pulling teeth and clipping fingers soon."
The words send a jolt through me. First, what is 'the stripping'? That doesn't sound good at all. And the thought of them yanking out Kieran's beautiful teeth, one by one, or cutting off those guita
r-playing, Audi-driving fingers of his is too much to bear.
What do they want from him?
"Take her outside while we finish up here," says the rat-faced man. Malcolm and his gun accompany me to the hallway, where we sit in chairs and glare at each other. I wonder if I could manage to sneak in a dancing spell or a binding spell before he shoots me. Probably not worth the risk. And although I could try confusing him with different voices, I don't know how to throw my voice behind him, and I don't know any voices that would be personal enough to effectively distract him.
Once I open my mouth, just to ask a question, and he whips me across the face with the gun. My lip puffs up almost instantly, and I taste blood between my teeth. I guess he's not risking any spells crossing my lips.
We wait there for at least an hour, and then they decide to put me back in the cell while they have lunch. James, the druid I knocked out earlier, comes by the cell and throws a hot dog in— just a hot dog, no bun or anything. I guess he's mad that I caught him off guard this morning.
I don't eat the hot dog. He probably spit on it, or worse.
Instead, I pace my cell. I try to transport again, and again. I work on spells, and I use my fenodyree strength on the door, although I know it's pointless.
More hours pass. I'm losing track of time, but I figure it's probably late afternoon, maybe evening, when Malcolm comes back. He proceeds, gun first, into the cell, watching me like a trainer watches a tiger— with a healthy dose of caution and respect.
"Come on," he says. "They're ready for you."
Most of the druids from the conference room are already waiting in the Far Darrig's dungeon— the same one I saved him from hours ago. Since the chains are dangling useless and broken, they've tied him to one of the metal posts with thick, rough ropes instead. He looks worse than ever. More wards are traced on his body in blood, probably to keep him from turning invisible or doing other magic— not that he could. He looks almost dead.
I bite my lip hard to keep back my tears. Tears will look like weakness and will only confirm to them that we're a thing. Which, technically, we're not.
Just as I'm thinking it, Kieran lifts his head and opens his eyes. One of them is so swollen it's barely a slit. Freshly bruised, probably by the hand of the big thug who stands nearby, cracking his knuckles.
"Aislinn," says Kieran, his voice weak. "How nice of you to join us. Have you met Chuck here?" He nods at the big muscle-bound guy. "I sincerely hope not."
"If you still have the spirit to joke, Chuck's not doing his job," says the Rat.
"Good to see you again too, Stanley," Kieran says.
"Have you reconsidered my offer?" Stanley asks, narrowing his pale eyes.
"What offer was that again? Can we clarify for the new members of the audience?"
Stanley nods to Chuck, who backhands Kieran in the mouth. He chokes, hanging limp from the ropes for a second, then lifts his head with a bloody, terrifying smile.
I have to dig my nails deep into my palms to keep from reacting.
Stanley flips out a small knife and walks over to Kieran. "My offer is simple," he says, sliding the knife along one of Kieran's ribs and opening a long, shallow cut. Kieran breathes hard through his teeth, spitting blood. "Tell us the spell that you used to make the Korrigan. Teach us to do it ourselves. Then you will be free."
Seriously?
"Why do you want to be monsters?" I ask.
"Not monsters," says Stanley. "Gods. You see, ever since we heard about you from that fenodyree, I've had this idea. If we could become Korrigan-druid hybrids, like you, we'd be able to drain powers from other Fae, collect them for ourselves. We'd be all-powerful, invincible. No nation's government would be able to stand against us. We'll become the most influential people in the world."
"World domination. Are you kidding?" I laugh. "That's so cliché, right, Kieran?"
Kieran snickers. "World domination. For the druid who has everything."
He gets a punch in the gut for that one.
"Don't you think it's about time to take care of our business?" says Maeve. She's been looking at the Far Darrig with utter disgust. "Go ahead and strip Aislinn, and our part of the deal will be done."
Strip me? Oh no. No no no.
I'm sure my eyes are big as moons, because Stanley laughs through his rat-nose. "Not your clothes. Your powers. Your grandmother can't handle you as you are, so she wants us to take your Life-Stream and your Fae powers. Then you can go home with her, to your nice little dungeon. Wouldn't you like that?"
No. They can't, can they?
"Chain her up, boys," he says, and Chuck and another druid grip my upper arms.
Malcolm is still holding the gun. But now I know that he can't kill me. They have the agreement with Maeve and it probably includes me being whole and mostly undamaged.
Softly I whisper "Láidreacht" again to call out my strength, and I throw my arms backward, then forward. Chuck and the other man crash to the floor, and I dart behind the big stone altar in case Malcolm decides to shoot me anyway. But there's nothing back here, no weapons, nothing I can use to defend myself.
Then I hear two of the druids chanting. My throat is suddenly constricted— I can't breathe. Can't speak. I have no defenses left, because my brain is getting fuzzy and I'm freaking out and I'm going to die—
Suddenly, right before I pass out, the pressure relaxes, and hands seize my arms again, yanking me upright. I'm coughing, gasping the breath back into my lungs.
Stanley walks up to me, grabs the front of my tank top, and rips it down the center. His hand has been cut, probably to perform the choking spell on me, and it leaves bloodstains on my shirt and on the bra underneath.
"You could have gone quietly." With a bloody finger, he reaches toward my chest. Calling up the bit of karate Zane taught me, I snap my foot out and kick him in the crotch, hard.
He makes a kind of gulping noise and backs up, legs pressed together. "Chain her!" he squawks.
They throw me onto the altar, the rough stone scraping my back through my shirt. If I turn my head to the right, I can see Kieran's face, tight with concern, his one unblemished eye shining silver-gray.
Metal loops and hooks are already attached to the altar. Have they really sacrificed someone here before? I don't want to know.
I knee Chuck in the face and bloody his nose before he manages to force my ankle into the manacle. The other guy gets off easy with a fierce scratch from my nails down the side of his cheek; but that's all the damage I can do before they lock the metal cuffs around my wrists and ankles.
Leaning over me, Stanley sneers in my face. I'm immobilized now, and the most I can do is glare at him. Inside I'm terrified. They're going to take my powers, my Life-Stream, and send me back to Maeve. I'll never get out of that house again. I'll be hers till I'm a hundred years older, and broken.
Stanley reaches toward me again and traces a ward over my chest with his bloody hand, probably to curb my magic. He takes his time drawing the knot, his fingers wandering a little lower than necessary. I hear Kieran's breath hissing harder between his teeth.
"What is Maeve giving you?" I ask Stanley. "It must be something enormous, if you're doing this kind of favor for someone you hate."
"I don't really hate her," he says. "Her feud was with my ancestors. Our generation of druids has no real issue with the Korrigan."
"But you must be getting something out of it."
"Some rare spell ingredients and relics," he says. "Things we thought were no longer available or possible. She apparently keeps them at home, in a closet, of all places." He chuckles.
I think I know which closet he means. The one off Maeve's office, the door she always keeps padlocked. I make a mental note, if I live through this and if I ever get the chance, to wreck everything in that closet. Maybe burn it all.
"All right, gentlemen, let's begin." Stanley raises both hands, like some kind of priest starting a ceremony.
"Where are your robes?" I ask.
>
"What?"
"Your robes. Druids should have robes." I'm rewarded by a chuckle from Kieran.
"We live in modern times, dear. The magic is the same; we don't need all the other trappings."
"But you have runes and chains and dungeons. It would all be cooler with robes."
Stanley rolls his eyes. "Gag her."
I'm gagged for the first time in my life. I hate it. I wish they'd use a muting spell, like Kieran used on the pixie Elspeth; but maybe they can't. It's obvious that magic doesn't work for them the same way it does for Fae.
The cloth they use to gag me is scratchy and none too clean, and it tastes terrible and chafes my tongue and the corners of my mouth.
All my spirit is gone. I turn my head and look at Kieran, who's watching me while Chuck gags him as well. Just seeing his face, meeting his gaze, is enough to help me feel a little calmer.
"Let's begin," says Stanley again; and just at that moment a cellphone rings loudly. It's a jazzy ringtone, much too pert and lively for this setting.
It's too perfect. My chest heaves with a laugh that's more like a sob.
"Really, Bob? Again?" Stanley growls. "Every time! Every time we're having a ceremony."
"Sorry," says Bob. I recognize him as one of the three druids Kieran and I met in the hallway. "The twins are being little monsters. I gotta go deal with this."
He leaves the room.
"Now can we begin?" Stanley nearly shrieks the words. I see the crack in his civilized facade, and it scares me.
Three of them join him beside me. Stanley, Malcolm, June, and another druid I don't know. There's nothing left of June's friendly demeanor now. She doesn't sneer or glare like a movie villain; she's just impassive, like this is routine for her.
Behind them, I can see Maeve, standing cold and tall, her short blond hair accentuating the regal cast of her face. Her eyes are like chips of blue ice.
As the druids bring out earth-toned paints, and knives, and mistletoe sprigs, and bits of charred wood and bone, I realize that this is not going to be as simple as I thought. When I draw powers from a Fae, I speak a basic Korrigan incantation, bend the power stream away from the Life-Stream, and draw the powers into myself. Then I return the Life-Stream to the body.
Druid (Secrets of the Fae Book 2) Page 16