by M. D. Massey
Her Mallen streak was gone, and her dark hair had been braided along the sides while leaving carefree locks that fell around her face. Flowers had been woven in, and she wore a crown of blossoms that appeared to be frozen in full bloom, without a single bruised or wilted petal. I motioned to the troll that all was well and waited patiently for her to draw near.
“Jesse, it’s Finnegas. He’s—”
“I know, Colin,” she said, her moss-green eyes tearing up as they met mine. “I’ve been crying my eyes out since I heard.”
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” I replied as I pulled her into a hug. “My mind keeps telling me this is all just a bad dream. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find the old man in the junkyard, smoking those nasty roll-your-own cigarettes and tinkering on the Gremlin.”
“If only,” she said. “At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that I got to see him one last time.”
“Yeah, there is that, I guess.”
We released our embrace and she stepped back, drying her eyes as they drifted to Ásgeir. “I think introductions are in order.”
“Oops, my apologies. This is Ásgeir, my friend from Iceland. He’s sort of like my bodyguard.”
“The Northern Kingdoms, actually,” he corrected, “but I abide in Eylenda.” He stepped forward, carefully taking Jesse’s extended hand in his. “Pleased to meet you, Jesse of the Sidhe Lands.”
“Likewise, Ásgeir. It’s good to know someone is watching this trouble magnet’s back.” As she continued, she swept her gaze back and forth between us both. “I’d offer you both the hospitality of The Dagda’s home, but he’s not taking guests… and there’s not much time to spare anyway.”
“What do you mean, Jess,” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Are you aware at all of what’s going on in Austin?” she answered, turning to address me. “Something awful has happened, apparently. Manannán was here not long before you two arrived, and he was not pleased. I didn’t catch much of their conversation, but before The Dagda turned him away, I heard mention of Maeve’s real name.”
“Don’t worry, it’s under control,” I assured her. “Badb and Fuamnach were staging an attack on Maeve’s demesne as a cover so they could get Siobhán inside her house to abduct me. Long story short, the plan didn’t work, and I convinced Siobhán to defect to our side. But I warned Maeve’s people of the impending attack, so they were prepared.”
Jesse pursed her dark red lips as she gave a slight shake of her head. “I don’t know, Colin. I got the impression that things didn’t go well for Maeve and her court.”
“C’mon, Jess—this is Maeve we’re talking about here. She’s a goddess in her own right, and she has legions of fae backing her up. How bad could it be?”
My former girlfriend frowned. “Like I said, I didn’t catch much. But my intuition tells me they lost, and badly.”
“Colin,” Ásgeir rumbled. “Did you not have companions in the fae queen’s employ?”
“Sabine,” I answered as I ran a hand down my face. “Aw, hell. Sabine was there. Shit, if they did anything to her—”
“You’d better go, Colin. And be careful. Badb has likely left some of her forces behind just in case you show up.”
“Right. I’ll be on my guard.” I was about to leave, then I stopped myself, realizing that I hadn’t seen her in ages. “Jesse, are you doing okay here?”
She tilted her head. “As well as can be expected. The Dagda treats me like a daughter. He dotes on me, really. And he’s been showing me stuff.”
“Druidry?” I asked, more than a little suspicious that the god might’ve lied about letting druidry die out.
“Uh uh,” she replied. “More like how to use the magic that was left inside me after you took control of the Grove. It changed me, and I’m still not certain what the extent of those changes were. I guess he’s just helping me sort it out.”
“Well, you could do worse than taking magic lessons from the guy who invented druid magic. But other than that, are you well?”
She gave the slightest frown. “It’s lonely, to be honest. The Dagda is ancient, and he’s not always the best of company.”
“And you can’t leave Underhill,” I said, considering the situation. “You know, you could always go live with Plúr, Oscar, and Oisín. They’re not entirely human, but their fiann are, I think. In fact, I’m fairly certain theirs is the only outpost of humans in all Underhill.”
“You know them?” she asked.
“Well, we aren’t exactly on speaking terms, but they are my distant relatives. I’ll visit them and put in a good word.”
“Thanks, slugger,” she said, pinching my cheek before she kissed it. “Now, go, check on your friend, then come visit me when you’re done.”
“I will, Jess. I promise.”
“And for goodness sakes, don’t get killed,” she said as a sad smile flashed across her face.
Ásgeir held his hands up in apology. “I will try to prevent it. But considering my employer’s predilection for walking into dangerous situations, I make no promises.”
It was nighttime when we arrived at Maeve’s place, and the area was deathly silent. There was only a slight breeze, only a few clouds remained in the sky, and it was clear that the storm had passed. If it hadn’t been for the remains of the stone wall that bordered the grounds surrounding Maeve’s home, I’d have thought I portalled into the wrong location.
The air smelled of rain, smoke, blood, and the ozone stench of fae magic. Maeve’s house had been leveled to the foundations, and only a few partially intact stone pillars were left to mark where the manse once stood. Trees had been felled, some snapped into twigs leaving splintered trunks behind, while others had been split apart by lightning or some other elemental force.
Other than that, the ground had been razed bare. The scene reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Jarrell, Texas after it got hit with an F5 tornado. Three-quarters of a mile wide, with gusts of over 300 miles per hour, it had left nothing standing after it passed.
Ásgeir and I were both obscured by magic, but I didn’t trust it would keep Badb or Fuamnach from spotting us. I could see him and he could see me, so I reached into my Bag and pulled out Gae Dearg, handing it over to him. He took it with a curt nod as his eyes roamed back and forth, searching for threats.
Trash and bits of detritus were strewn everywhere, including splintered bits of wood, books, clothing, and all manner of household items. A refrigerator sat forlornly in the midst of all that refuse, upright but inverted like some odd monolith to mark the passing of modern civilization, or at least this piece of it. And odd-shaped something sat atop it, dripping liquid down the side—a red, thick, gel-like substance. On closer inspection, I noticed a splintered bone sticking out of the object, and it occurred to me that much of this “trash” wasn’t trash at all.
As I looked on the scene with new eyes, I began to pick out the body parts that littered the landscape in all directions. A foot here, still wearing a sock but missing a shoe. A hand and forearm there, wearing a perfect, unmarred French manicure. Half a lung. A head, too mangled to recognize, except that it had belonged to one of the high fae. This I knew due to its fine, delicate bone structure, and one intact ear that was partially obscured beneath what was left of its missing scalp.
Not a living soul could be seen, and soon I began to panic. I’d stealth-shifted as a precaution before our arrival, and as my dread grew I sprinted back and forth, examining every piece of dead flesh to see if it might have belonged to Sabine. I must’ve been making quite a lot of noise, because soon Ásgeir was at my side, restraining me with a firm, tight grip on my upper arm.
“Druid,” he said softly. “Get hold of yourself and remember the girl’s warning. We do not know what the goddesses left behind, and danger likely lurks in the shadows.”
“My friend was inside the house, Ásgeir—she was here when this happened. I have to know if she’s still alive.”
; “I understand, but it will do her no good if we die searching for her. Consider that what you see might have been a rearguard, left to defend the bulk of the queen’s forces as she retreated.”
“But the house—”
“Would’ve merely been a shell to serve as a gateway to her true home, which would likely not be constrained by the forces of space and time. If your friend was valued by the queen, then it is very likely she was evacuated by her liege.”
I exhaled softly and slowly, gathering my wits as I processed what he was saying. “You’re right, but we should still search for survivors.”
“Make it quick. I cannot help but think we are being watched.”
At that moment, a shimmering wall of sick, violet light shot skyward from the remains of Maeve’s garden wall. It closed in on itself high above us, forming a bubble of translucent, purple magic that shut off all sounds from the outside world. As the last bit of sky was obscured by the ward wall, I examined the weaves in the magical spectrum. It wasn’t god-level magic, but it was close, and it could take me days to unravel the spell.
“I do hate to be proven right,” the troll said as he took the spear into both hands.
“Sorry, Ásgeir,” I replied, turning to place my back at his.
“The girl did warn us,” he said. “And still, we walked right into this trap.”
“Just be ready. There’s no telling who or what they left behind on clean up duty.”
“I am always ready for battle, druid. And today is a good day to die.”
“Somehow, I knew you were going to say that,” I said under my breath.
I stuck one hand in my Bag to grab Dyrnwyn’s hilt, leaving it there so it wouldn’t go “flame on” and reveal our position. With the other hand I began spooling up several spells, including my sunlight spell and Mogh’s Scythe. Fuamnach was a skilled necromancer, so the combination would prove handy should we be attacked by ghouls and revenants. Standing at the ready, back to back, we scanned the vicinity for the inevitable and impending ambush.
Soon the “clip-clop” of hooves echoed in the distance—a hollow, eerie echo that seemed to be coming from somewhere other than this plane of existence. I shifted my attention in the direction from which that sound emanated just in time to see a huge, black, green-eyed horse shimmer into view as if emerging from the ward wall itself. The steed was as tall as I was at the shoulder and built like a Clydesdale, with rippling muscles and short, shimmering fur that dripped brackish water with its every step.
An aughiskey, then. I guess he had to switch steeds after I retired his nuckelavee.
Atop the horse sat an equally imposing rider dressed in a frock coat made from human skin, which he wore over a dingy white poet blouse and black velvet pants tucked into riding boots. The coat was a terrible thing to behold, stitched together from the facial skin of his past victims, each one contorted into an expression of absolute agony, forever locked in a silent plea for mercy that would never come. Likely as not, those victims had lost not just their lives but their souls as well, each trapped in that coat as an everlasting warning to the bearer’s enemies.
Beware, the reaper comes.
Any fae creature that would wear such an atrocity was bound to be equally hideous, and the Dullahan did not disappoint in that regard. He was tall despite being headless, and broad-shouldered in the manner of someone who performs manual labor daily. In one gloved hand he held a long-handled, spiked horseman’s axe—quite a suitable weapon for a mounted rider, and perhaps more practical than the chain whip he’d used when we faced each other last. Nestled under his other arm was his decapitated head, complete with stringy black hair, pale skin, mold-green lips, a death-bloated tongue, and a permanent, leering grin.
When the Dullahan had fully materialized, his milky, dead eyes scanned back and forth, searching for any indication of our position. Obviously, he knew I was here—or that someone was here, and that someone was likely to be me. The last time we met, I’d crippled his mount and then forced him to retreat. I’d gone over that encounter in my mind many times since and finally concluded that he was afraid of Dyrnwyn. Based on that hunch, my plan was to wait patiently until he wandered closer, then I’d split him and the aughiskey in two with a white-hot blade burning at 2,500 degrees Fahrenheit.
At least, that was the general directive until Ásgeir gently nudged my elbow to get my attention. Taking my eyes off the Dullahan only momentarily, I searched the area where he pointed his spear. Seeing nothing, I flicked my gaze back to the more immediate threat, only to have the troll nudge me again more firmly. I shrugged, and in response, the troll stabbed the tip of Gae Dearg at one specific spot in what had once been Maeve’s backyard garden, opposite from where the Dullahan had entered.
It was then I realized he was pointing at the hole where Maeve’s well had once been. Technically, the well was still there, although only a few stones remained where the well wall once stood. The hole itself was a single black dot that easily blended into the churned, blackened earth and debris that surrounded it. However, on closer inspection, I noticed that the entire hole was cloaked in shadow—or, at least, the section I could see. It was as if the opening had been plugged with cotton candy made from pitch, so complete was that darkness.
Well, that’s not normal.
Casting my eyes back and forth from the well to the Dullahan and back, I monitored each to determine which was the greater threat. I’d seen Ásgeir in action in Iceland and at Crowley’s farm, and he was a terrible sight to behold, easily handling two large ettins at once wielding nothing more than a fence post. Four had proved too much for him, however, and if it hadn’t been for Bryn the valkyrie’s intervention, the troll might’ve been toast.
Even with a weapon like Gae Dearg in his hands, Ásgeir might not be a match for a legendary creature like the Dullahan. Thus, I felt it was my responsibility to allow him to face the lesser threat. Barring additional information, I was ready to assume it was the fae psychopomp rather than whatever shadow creature lay in wait in the well shaft.
That was, until I saw what was sticking out of the well. At first, I mistook it for a log, just a piece of detritus left over from the destruction of Maeve’s home. Then the log moved, ever so slightly, just a small flicker of movement that caused me to reassess its nature. Examining it in detail, the not-log was roughly a foot in diameter, mottled gray and charcoal in color and covered in fine, black hairs. Moreover, where the end of the log rested on the ground, it appeared to be split like a horse’s hooves, and between the “toes” two sharp claws could be seen poking out from beneath the fur.
I’d seen such an appendage before. Recently, in fact, back at Hideie’s apartment. Although Mei’s markings were different, I had no doubt that I was looking at the foot of some enormous arachnid, one much larger than Mei in her spider form. Somehow, it had fit its bulk into the well, where it lay in wait, ready to pounce on one of us like a giant trapdoor spider.
Tapping Ásgeir on the shoulder, I pointed at the well and then crawled my fingers up my arm to mimic the movements of a spider. His beady eyes widened substantially, but he silently nodded to indicate he understood. A few terse moments passed as we continued to observe our would-be attackers in silence. Then, the troll ripped the biggest, loudest, longest fart I had ever heard.
18
“Well, now they know we’re here,” I said aloud, drawing Dyrnwyn as the Dullahan danced his steed around to face us.
“I am sorry, druid,” Ásgeir said in a tone that conveyed sheer and utter embarrassment. “I get gassy when I’m nervous, and spiders make me very nervous.”
“Oh, good heavens, what in the hell have you been eating?” I wheezed as I coughed and waved a hand back and forth in front of my face. “The smell—it’s like someone blended well-aged cheese with the contents of a ghoul’s stomach and the musk glands from a minotaur in rut.”
“You should take some blame for that,” he replied testily as he whipped his gaze back and forth between the
well and the Dullahan. “While the food you left for me in that cave was plentiful, trolls do not tolerate high-fiber diets well at all.”
“Oh, lawd have mercy,” I moaned. “Noted. Now, since we’ve discovered that you have a terrible case of arachnophobia—not to mention a delicate stomach—do you think you can handle yon’ headless bastard?”
“I’d face a legion of soul-takers if it meant I did not have to face whatever is in that well,” he replied in a strained, almost high-pitched tone.
“Get ready, then. He’s about to charge,” I said.
“Ah, helvítis, that thing is moving,” Ásgeir shrieked. Then, he ran to meet the Dullahan, trailing another loud-ass fart the entire way.
“Well, that’s one way to unleash a battle cry,” I coughed as I turned my now watering eyes to the well.
Another hairy, segmented leg emerged from the hole, then two more, their combined girth nearly blocking the aperture. The thing’s paw-like feet braced against the surrounding earth, using its claws for extra purchase. The spider began to surface—except it wasn’t, strictly speaking, a spider at all.
Like a demonic child clawing itself out of the womb, the creature squeezed its way out of the hole in a manner that defied logic and physics. The beast was ginormous, with a limb span that was easily thirty feet across. It had six arachnoid legs, the body of a giant black canine, the tail of a scorpion, two giant, humanoid arms, and what looked to be a flayed human skull as a head.
On closer inspection I realized that the skull hadn’t been flayed—it had decayed. Initially, I suspected that the thing’s head had come from an undead creature, perhaps a ghoul or revenant. Then it spoke, in a voice I recognized quite well from days gone by.
“Hello, McCool,” the creature said as it clicked its teeth together, clack-clack-clack. “Did you miss me?”
Fucking hell—it can’t be.