I groan. Of course that idiot playboy is behind this. "What about him?"
"The druids got him last week. They told us about it, since we have a little revenge interest there. They said someone told them where his loft was, and his leprechauns weren't around to protect him— plus I guess his magic was depleted for some reason. They caught him easily."
My stomach drops into my shoes. My brain is working, connecting the dots— Malcolm and the druids, in league somehow. Maybe he's even one of them. And I gave him the information the druids needed to catch the Far Darrig. And now—
Gemma is still talking. "Apparently they've been having fun with him— torture and all that— and they invited us to watch. A goodwill gesture. Gillian and Maeve went a few days ago for the first torture session."
Who is this chick, talking about a torture session like it's a damn movie? And who tortures people these days?
"So you're saying—" Arden pauses.
"I'm saying maybe Aislinn went after him. If she found out that they have him."
In that instant, I know what she's saying is true. If druids got a hold of that damn Far Darrig, and if Aislinn found out about it, she would go looking for him. She'd use her pixie powers; she'd follow him straight to the bad guys' hangout without even knowing what she was walking into. Plunge blindly right into a nest of druids, just to get to him.
I'm done. Whatever those two have going on between them, I'm out of it. This isn't my business anymore.
I turn and walk out of the house, back to my truck. Key in the ignition, I'm about to leave when Arden pops up at my window, knocking and looking pissed.
Sighing, I roll the window down. "What?"
"Zane, where are you going?"
"Away from the crazy."
"If she followed him, she's in trouble. Druids are dangerous, no matter what century it is. The stories you've heard, they're all true."
"But I'm no magic user. I won't be able to help."
Arden reaches up and squeezes my bicep lightly. "You're strong. Most of these druids are probably rich white guys who sit on their butts behind desks all day; but there are bound to be some guard types around the place. I can do a few spells, get us through their security— and you can be the muscle."
"I can get beat up, you mean."
"Only if you're not fast enough."
"Do you know where the druid hangout is?"
"Gemma gave me the location. It's near Bluerock Mountain."
Bluerock Mountain. The weird zone in the forest, the one where we found the stone circle, with the blood and the dead birds. Druid stuff.
I rub my hands over my face. I can't do this.
But it's Aislinn. She's in trouble. I got to do this.
She'd do it for me—hell, she has done it for me. Plus, the whole thing is kind of my fault, in a weird roundabout way. I told Malcolm where the Far Darrig was, and he told the druids, so they caught him, and then Aislinn went after him. So technically, she's in danger because of me.
Crap.
As much as the magic— and now the druids— freak me out, I gotta be down for this.
"Screw it, I'm in."
"Good!" Arden looks relieved. "I wasn't about to go up there alone. I'll need about an hour to prepare a few things. Meanwhile, quick question— anyone in your family practice hoodoo?"
"Do I look like someone in my family practices hoodoo?"
She cocks her head to one side. "Well— you can never tell."
"My mom hates the stuff. My grandmother used to do it all the time down in New Orleans, though."
"New Orleans? Too far— she can't help us. Is any of your grandma's stuff around here? Maybe in your house?"
"You crazy?"
"Listen, Zane, hoodoo uses the essences and fluids of the body, like the druids do— things like skin flakes, saliva, nail clippings, blood, and fluids from—"
"Stop, I get it!"
"It's a similar path to spellwork. So if you can get your hands on any hoodoo charms or amulets, do it. Meet me at the apartment in an hour."
Man, she's bossy. And cranky. I mean, I know she's worried, but still.
On the way home, I call my mother.
"Hey Mom, can you get me Gram's number?"
"Gram's number? Why? What you need to talk to her about?"
"Please, Mom, it's important."
She sighs. "I'll text it to you. You drivin'?"
"Yeah."
"Don't you dare look at that text while you're driving. You pull over somewhere and then call Gram."
I roll my eyes. "Yes, ma'am."
"Don't you roll your eyes at me, boy. I'm lookin' out for your safety."
"How did you— never mind. Bye, Mom."
At a red light, I check the text and dial Gram's number.
It's been years since I saw her— even longer since we went to New Orleans. Mom hates going there. Hates the little trailer her mother lives in. Hates the colored bottles hanging from the trees all around to catch spirits. I remember those, even though I was maybe six when we visited.
Gram herself is tall, with sagging cheeks and heavy bags under her eyes. One eyelid droops more than the other, and as a kid that always freaked me out.
Once she showed me a voodoo doll. She says it's the one she used to get rid of my grandfather, after he beat her one too many times. A burlap figure, wrapped here and there with black twine, with a red slash of a painted mouth, and black eyes. On its chest was a little red felt heart. And everywhere pins, in the thing's face, its heart, its crotch.
Mom caught her showing me the doll, and we left for home the next day.
"Hello?" Gram's voice is surprisingly strong for a woman her age.
"Hey Gram, it's Zane. Sorry to call so late." What time is it? Damn, she's probably been in bed for hours.
"Zane! So good to hear from you. You been good?"
"Yeah, more or less. Gram, there's something I need your help with. When you were here a few years ago, did you leave any of your hoodoo supplies anywhere? Or do you know where I could get some? Like, for protection?"
Silence.
"Gram?"
"Your mama don't like me talkin' about this stuff with you."
"She's not here. It's just us. Please, Gram. I need to know where I can get protection from magic, and fast. Someone special to me is in danger."
"Boy, you go up in the attic at your house. Look under the loose board to the right of the stairs. I put a couple of paquets in there to protect the house. You take those and use 'em."
"Thanks, Gram."
"Be sure to keep 'em in your pocket or somewhere on your body."
"Okay, I will."
The house is quiet when I arrive home. My mom is at a fundraiser for the women's shelter tonight; Dad's at work late; and Kali's gone to Ada's. I got the place to myself.
First thing I do is go to my room and make a figure of myself under the sheets and blankets. I use clothes, a football, some books, whatever I can grab. Finally the lump under the bedding looks big enough to be me, and I add a basketball covered with a black T-shirt at the top for effect. If Mom opens my bedroom door when she gets home tonight, hopefully she'll think I'm there, asleep.
Time to find me some hoodoo paquets.
The door to the attic stairs is jammed; nobody goes up there except to tote down the Christmas decorations every year, right after Thanksgiving. I wrench it open and climb the steps into the dark.
When I get to the top, I feel ahead for the string and pull it. A single bulb flashes on, blinding me for a second.
It's stifling hot up here, although it's cooled off some since the sun set. The air is dusty, thick, hard to breathe. In the spaces under the slanting roof beams are boxes, bins, a couple old barrels, piled-up junk. Sometime we gotta clear this place out. Mom's probably got no clue what's even up here anymore.
To the right of the steps, Gram said. Sure enough, there's an edge of a board jutting up higher than the others. I use my pocketknife to inch it up further, til
l I can pry it out.
There, in a little box, sit three tiny bags tied with string. I don't know what's in them, and I don't want to know. I just hope carrying these in our pockets will help me and Arden against the druid magic.
I sit down on the steps and look at those three little bags in my hand. Sweat's starting to run down the back of my neck.
What am I doing?
I'm due at work in a few minutes, taking the night shift for one of the guys. Instead I'm planning to drive into the mountains with a woman I barely know, to haul my ex-girlfriend out of some kinda trouble she may or may not be in. We don't even know that she's there. It's just a guess that she went after the Far Darrig.
Fine, it's more than a guess. It's damn likely.
This isn't me, this isn't what I do. I got my life ahead of me, college waiting for me— and I had a girlfriend, before all this magic crap came up.
This is not my thing.
Faint and far away, I hear the doorbell ring. I stuff the paquets in my pockets and shove the floorboard back down. Then I almost break my neck rushing down the steps. Maybe it's Aislinn, and I won't have to go on this wild druid chase.
But it's Laurel at the front door. She's looking fine, her hair in a bunch of long black braids, and big gold earrings dangling from her ears.
She doesn't even wait for me to speak. "Look, I know this is weird, but I have this really bad feeling about Aislinn. I think we need to find her."
"Yeah, I'm on it."
"You know where she is?"
"Sort of."
"Well, is she okay? Is she in trouble?"
"Kinda? Not sure what to tell you, Laurel— it's complicated."
"Then I'm coming with you. You can un-complicate it on the way." Her eyes drop. "What are those lumps in your pockets?"
"Nothin.'"
"Nothin'? Sounds like somethin'. Come on, out with it."
"No."
She frowns. "Zane Percy, you doing drugs? Let me see that." And then she's digging her fingers around in my pants, pulling out the hoodoo bags one after another.
"Laurel! Geez, give a man his personal space!"
She pinches the bags between her long fingernails. "What the heck are these?"
"Hoodoo," I mumble.
"Hoodoo? Zane, what is going on?"
This day just keeps getting better. "Get in the truck, girl. I'll tell you on the way."
21
HEATHENS
Aislinn
My whole body jerks, again and again, as the dark matter that forms the Beast unravels and dissipates into the air. I didn't sleep this time. I was awake for all of it— the thrashing and roaring when the monster discovered itself run through with chains. The hideous screeching and the violent tugging that felt like it would rip me in two.
I'm sick from all of it, and when I'm clear of the Beast form, I vomit on the floor. Then I cry a little because I have to hang here in the chains near that puddle of filth, and I can't even wipe my face.
Glancing down at myself, I realize that the shame goes a lot further. All my clothes were torn up during the transformation; they're confetti around me. The good news is that the ward the druids put on my chest to bind my powers is gone too.
The other sign, the rune Stanley carved into me to detach my Life-Stream, is still there, stinging and burning and raw. But I think it has done its work— now it's just a serious of cuts that need to heal.
I probably don't have much time before they come for me. I whisper the strength spell and feel the familiar rush of warmth through my muscles. Violently I jerk at the chains, willing them to break. Finally one of them works loose from the wall and falls with a clang. Great. Now I have to lug the whole chain around. And there are several others attached to me as well.
Before I can get a second one loosened, June enters the room. "Easy," she says."You hurt me, and there will be half a dozen men here in a second— and I guarantee they'll be oh-so-happy to see you in your current state."
I nod, defeated. She unlocks the chains and hands me some plain underwear and a white, thigh-length shift dress.
"Really?" I raise my eyebrows. "This is it?"
"Be glad they're giving you anything at all. They don't always grant your next-door neighbor this courtesy."
"Why are you here? Doing this?" I ask her.
"That's my story, and you don't need to know it," June says. "Wipe some of the filth off with this." She hands me a damp towel.
"What about—"
"The Far Darrig?" She smirks. "You really are into him, aren't you? Well, we've set up a little meet-and-greet for you two later, so get dressed."
After she leaves, I use the towel to clean up and then slip on the underwear and the white dress. I still feel vulnerable, but at least it's better than nothing.
Quickly I go through my roster of abilities. My leprechaun powers are useless; I can't transport from in here, and taking on the appearance of a kid won't fool them, if it would even work at all with the wards they're wearing. My pixie abilities include finding things, hiding things from other pixies, and dancing. Useless as well. And after Kieran's little voice-throwing stunt in the hallway, I'm pretty sure that sort of trick isn't going to fool them again.
And the fenodyree strength saps my energy and leaves me giddy way too fast. I'll have to use it carefully.
I could try a binding or muting spell; but I've never actually used those on anyone, and most of the druids are warded against that kind of thing, especially when the Far Darrig is around.
There isn't much I can do, except sit and wait to be tortured.
If we ever get out of this, Kieran will be teaching me a selection of useful offensive spells. Although right now, it's looking as if he's going to die here.
◆◆◆
When they bring me to Kieran, it's a different room this time. Long and low, with viciously bright lights and three cots. He's sitting on one of them, hands chained, with the leather muzzle on again. Still, he looks a little better; someone wiped his face mostly clean and the swelling around his eye has gone down a bit. They didn't give him a shirt, though; the bruises, cuts, and wards all over his torso are still visible.
Stanley is there, and another bulky man like Chuck, probably to keep me and the Far Darrig under control.
Quickly I cast my eyes around the room, looking for weapons. There's a bag on the table that looks heavy; I could use that to hit someone with. It's now or never— they're about to strap me down.
As Chuck steers me toward the cot, I start to whisper the word for "might" in Gaelic— but the second my mouth opens he claps his hand over it. "Gotcha, little one," he says. "Won't be so easy this time." Pushing me down on the cot, he nods to Stanley. There's a jar of blood on the table, beside the bag, and Stanley uses it to paint the restraining ward on my chest again.
Just for kicks, I say the spell anyway and try to leap off the table; but I only have my own strength. I'm stronger now than I used to be a few months ago, but still not strong enough to overpower someone like Chuck without a little magical juice. Kicking, writhing, lunging, biting, spitting— none of it prevents Chuck from slowly, powerfully, inexorably buckling me into the restraints.
I'm going to be tortured.
They're going to hurt me till the Far Darrig gives in and tells them how to become super powerful. These guys, with Fae power? That's a scary concept. Kieran must realize it too, or he would have given them the spell days ago.
So I'll be tortured, and if he breaks, they'll kill him at midnight, in front of Maeve. In front of me.
Suddenly I remember the story he told me, the dream we shared— how Maeve had him watch while she killed his wife. At that time, I could barely believe she would do such a thing. I guess she hasn't really changed that much over the centuries. What happened to her that made her so vindictive, so empty of pity?
"Let's get started," Stanley says. His pale eyes dart from me to Kieran. "You both understand what's going on here, right? We will hurt her, until you t
ell us the spell. Then, Far Darrig, you will die tonight, and you, my dear," he turns his rat-like face to me, "you'll be our very special guest."
The way he says it, the slight narrowing of his eyes, sends a chill through me. I'd rather not be his very special guest. Something tells me he wouldn't be as gentlemanly a host as the Far Darrig was.
Stanley whips an apron off the table and unfolds it. "Let's start with a little perspective. I like to get to know people before I torture them. You, I know already," he says, pointing to Kieran. "We've had time together. But you, Aislinn, I'd like to know better. So tell me, what do you like to do?"
"I'd like to kick your face in," I say.
He clucks his tongue. "She's a spitfire, isn't she? I can see why you like her. She looks like this fragile, naive little thing, but there's real fight there. The spirited girls are the most fun."
Then he takes my earlobe between his fingers and crushes it as hard as he can, twisting so that the triangular stud I'm wearing is ground into my flesh. I feel a pop, and blood oozes warm from my earlobe and trickles down into my hair.
"I said, 'What do you like to do?' " he repeats.
"I like to—" I pause to breathe through the pain. "I like to walk in the woods. Watch TV. Train with my boyfriend. My ex, I mean. He and I used to practice moves and fighting styles."
"Hmm, sexy," he says. "I like to practice moves too. Maybe I'll show you a few sometime."
There's a noise from Kieran— a snort or a swear, I'm not sure which.
"Are you— do you have a family?" I ask.
"This is about you, not me," says Stanley. "But yes, I do. A lovely wife, three kids. Great house. We went to Mexico last year— have you been? They have the best resorts, amenities like you wouldn't believe. Loved it. But I owe my professional good luck, my success, to my work here. This is my true passion, the druid religion, the pursuit of magical power. It's exhilarating."
The pursuit of magical power. That's something Kieran is interested in, as well. Magical experimentation. It chills me to think about the similarity between them.
Stanley washes his hands and puts on sterile gloves, as a surgeon might.
Druid (Secrets of the Fae Book 2) Page 18