Mordred looks outside to the lightening sky, frowning in concentration.
“Let’s take a quick look at what the enemy’s doing first,” he tells Nibs. “Make sure our little diversion’s worked.”
The clurichaun nods. He pulls a flask from an inside pocket and takes a long drag from it. “Take the clutz with you too then,” he says, smacking his lips appreciatively. “We don’t want her to accidentally end up as part of the Teind, or food for Dub.”
Mordred pulls me after him to the back of the room, over the fallen wall and into what must have once been a vegetable patch.
“Here,” Mordred says, stopping in the middle of the small garden.
He lifts his free hand and a blue glow spreads out from it, drawing water forth from the soil until a wide, murky puddle stands at our feet. Mordred drops to his knees.
“Sgàthan soilleir,” he intones, touching the tip of the puddle with his fingers.
A pulse ripples through its dark surface and the water goes still, as if frozen over. A soft, amber light gleams in its center before expanding outward like a stain spreading over cloth. I bend forward as shapes crystallize on its surface.
“I’m afraid we’ve lost our trackings,” a deep, well-known voice says that makes my heart thump harder in worry.
I see Gareth look confusedly about, his eyes white in the surrounding darkness.
“And your vocabulary,” Gauvain adds, his dreadlocks coming into view next to his cousin’s bald head. “I assume you mean bearings.”
“I thought we were hunting Fey, not bears,” Gareth mutters.
Something rams into Gareth and he yelps as he falls face first into a thorny bush. Another head pops up in the puddle’s surface, munching on some leaves.
“Puck!” I exclaim, surprised to see the hobgoblin anywhere else but at school, my breath rippling the puddle’s surface.
“Don’t disturb the water,” Nibs scolds me.
Holding my breath, I watch Percy and Hadrian walk past the cousins and out of sight, closely followed by a haggard Keva. My heartbeat accelerates as Arthur next steps into view. He pauses for a moment to get Puck off Gareth, his perennial frown in place.
“Stop fooling around,” Arthur says. “The longer we take, the harder it’s going to be to find her.”
No. He can’t be coming here! I want to yell at him to drop the search, that it’s a trap, but Nibs forces me further away from the puddle and the vision it contains.
I watch helplessly as another shape appears behind Arthur, urging him forward.
“I just hope we get to her while she is still alive,” Lugh says grimly.
“Well if it isn’t mister sinister,” Sameerah says, shoving past the guys, Blanchefleur on her tail. “I don’t care what happens to the girl, I’m just itching to get my hands on a Dark Sidhe.”
“They won’t kill her or they wouldn’t have bothered to capture her otherwise,” Rip says reassuringly, his whole face seeming to glow in the dark woods around them, and I cock my head in confusion—what is the albino man doing with them?
“I hope you’re right,” Arthur says. They resume their march, their footsteps dying out as they move beyond the puddle’s edge.
“Come on, slowpoke,” Gauvain says, nudging Gareth with his foot. “If we wait any longer we’ll lose even our own party.”
“Wait,” Gareth says. “I think I’ve found something.”
I watch the big knight pull his beefy arm from the thorny bushes, pulling on something that seems to be struggling in his grip. But as the critter is about to come free of the long thorns, Gareth seems to get stuck.
“What are you playing at?” Gauvain asks, annoyed.
“Just give me your hand,” Gareth retorts through gritted teeth.
“I assume you meant to give you a hand,” Gauvain says.
He grabs his cousin by the shoulders and starts to pull, the veins on his forehead looking about to burst. Then whatever was keeping the creature stuck gives in, and both cousins fall onto their backsides.
I narrow my eyes as something small flutters above them, darting about so quickly I can’t quite tell what it is.
“Thank you for saving me, oh kind gentlemen,” a squeaky voice pipes up.
A Fey, I realize. Nibs guffaws beside me. “Oh, fools,” he says wickedly, holding his belly with laughter, “you have no idea what you just unleashed!”
“And for that, I shall reward you,” the tiny voice continues, the Fey darting around the cousins’ heads.
“Reward?” Gauvain repeats suspiciously.
“Three wishes,” the tiny Fey says.
“Any wish we want?” Gareth asks, flexing his fingers as if to test they’re still firmly attached to his hand.
“Yep, yep, yep!” the Fey says, fluttering closer to his face so Gareth goes cross-eyed.
“I don’t think we want anything from you,” Gauvain says, trying to bat the Fey away.
Gareth’s head snaps around toward his cousin. “Well that’s stupid,” he says. “He says we can have anything we want!”
“Stop being foolish,” Gauvain retorts. “You bloody well know that anything coming from a Fey comes with strings attached.”
“I’ll attach you with strings if you keep calling me stupid!” Gareth says, his voice rising.
“If only I could hammer some sense into you,” Gauvain says with a roll of the eyes, “I’d be more than delighted to perform the task.”
“Wish I had a mighty hammer to pummel down your oversized head with,” Gareth yells back.
“Your wish is my command!” the tiny Fey says.
Both cousins freeze then look up at the tiny creature buzzing about them.
“Wait what?” Gareth asks.
His confused look turns to one of excitement as something heavy crashes to the ground at their feet, raising a large cloud of ash. Coughing, Gareth reaches down and lifts up a massive warhammer, its head twice the size of his own.
“Sweet!” he says, admiring the new weapon.
Next to me, Nibs gasps. “It can’t be,” he whispers. “That little gerbil had it all along?”
“Had what all along?” I ask.
Nibs points to the hammer with his misshapen chin. “That used to belong to the archangel Michael,” he says, his eyes twinkling with avidity.
I return my attention to the scene unfolding in the puddle just as Gauvain punches Gareth in the ribs. “Give it back,” he says. “You don’t know what it does.”
“I’ll show you what it does,” Gareth says, swinging the massive hammer dangerously close to his cousin’s face.
“It’s an untried weapon, you fool!” Gauvain says, not moving from his spot. “And you want to take it into battle with us?”
“You’re just jealous I’ve got a better weapon than you now,” Gareth retorts, smiling brightly. “With this in my hands, you won’t be able to beat me anymore.”
Gauvain snorts. “Wish it were stuck to you since you seem to love it so much!” Gauvain gasps as soon as the words leave him. “No!” he says, turning quickly to the Fey. “I didn’t mean—”
“Your wish is my command!” the Fey says, his voice oozing with evil pleasure.
Gareth suddenly drops to his knees with a grunt, holding onto his left hand, then doubles over with a howl.
“Gareth?” Gauvain asks, tentatively touching his cousin’s heaving back. “You OK, cuz? Gareth?”
He pulls on Gareth’s shoulder, forcing him to sit back up.
“Sacré nom d’un chien[78]!” Gauvain exclaims.
Sweat beading on his face, Gareth lifts his arm tentatively before him. Where once was his hand is now the large end of the warhammer, its metal glinting dully in the moonless night.
“Undo it!” Gauvain exclaims, pointing at the Fey. “Undo it now!”
“Can’t,” the tiny Fey says. “You haven’t said the magic words.”
“Fine,” Gauvain roars, “I wish—”
“Wait,” Gareth says, holding onto
his cousin’s arm with his remaining hand, “it’s not so bad.”
“What do you mean it’s not so bad?” Gauvain yells. “You’ve lost your hand!”
“Yes, but now I have a weapon I’ll never lose,” Gareth says, sounding awfully calm. “And…”
“And what?” Gauvain asks, more subdued.
“We never know when a wish could provide utility.”
“It’s ‘to prove useful,’ you ass,” Gauvain corrects him automatically, but he seems to be thinking Gareth’s words over. “How are you going to get dressed with that? And the…other business. Because there’s no way in hell I’m going to wash you.”
Gareth shrugs. “I’ll find a way. If that squirrel Agravain can do it, so can I.”
“Yes, but he’s only missing a leg,” Gauvain says, but he seems to have made up his mind and gives a sharp nod.
The Fey flutters in front of them like a bumble bee on steroids. “Your third wish?” it asks eagerly.
“Not now, buzzer,” Gauvain says.
“But I’ve got to make your third wish come true!” the little Fey exclaims, sounding hurt.
“Yes,” Gareth says, getting back up to his feet, “but not now.”
“You can’t do this to me!” the Fey exclaims, stomping his foot in the air furiously. “I’ve earned my freedom! I deserve to get out of here!”
“Oh, you can follow us,” Gauvain retorts, breaking into a sardonic smile, “but you’ll have to wait until we make up our minds about our third wish before you can roam about freely.”
And with a satisfied smirk, both cousins hurry after the rest of the group. I hear the Fey mutter a slew of swearwords before whizzing out of sight behind them.
Only then do I notice the large, burnt tree laying in the background, as if some giant tore it down, and I recognize the location.
“They’re almost here,” I say, awed at their finding my traces so quickly.
Mordred glances at me suspiciously. “Yes, that was fast, wasn’t it?” he asks, his gaze traveling down my body and I shift uncomfortably in the tattered remains of my dress, thankful for Arthur’s jacket.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a tracker on you?” he asks.
“A what now?” I ask, unable to meet his eyes.
“Never mind, it’s time to get started,” Mordred says, tapping the surface of the puddle again so it bubbles up then disappears in a cloud of steam.
“Time to get what started?” I ask, following him and Nibs back to the fort ruins.
“Oh, he hasn’t told you?” Nibs asks, struggling to climb back over the crumbling pan of wall.
He slips over a mossy boulder and I instinctively throw my bound arms out to keep Nibs from tumbling down. As we both finally make it back inside the building’s warmth, the clurichaun looks up at me.
“We’re going to go open the Gates of Hell,” he says eagerly, a piece of molten skin flapping over his scarred lips with every word.
Chapter 31
My blood runs cold as Mordred orders everyone to get on the move. I spy Dub in the opposite corner sweeping back to the front door, a shadow among shadows. If only I could get close to him…. My manacled hands instinctively clench around the air, and I imagine Dub’s neck between them as I squeeze the life out of him. Assuming, of course, the Shade breathes at all.
I feel my hands grow warm then something releases inside me and Dub’s shadow jerks around to face me.
Nibs pats my hands down furiously. “Don’t you dare try to get the Prince of Darkness’s attention, you cretin!” he whispers harshly to me. “Want to find yourself dead before you step out of here?”
I blink down at the clurichaun, still confused about what just happened. Did Dub really feel what I wanted to do to him?
“Remember there’s no backing away now,” Mordred shouts over the din of the Dark Sidhe preparing for battle. “We get there, and we conquer! This is our time to shine.”
Barks and shouts receive his proclamation in a loud roar that shakes dust and small debris from the roof. Nibs shoves me brusquely forward after the others and we file out into the light of early dawn.
The troop marches past the long line of spiked heads who whistle and catcall after us, then climb up the steep staircase to the cliff’s top.
“Where are we going?” I ask as Nibs pulls me after him in the persistent mists.
“Forward,” the clurichaun says.
“I know that,” I say, tripping over my frozen feet. “But where forward?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Nibs says, helping me back up impatiently.
“She might not.”
I jump as Mordred trots over to us, his kelpie’s hooves barely making a sound. I crane my neck up to look him in the eyes.
“What do you mean I might not?” I ask. “Are you going to kill me first?”
Mordred smiles brightly. “Let’s not be so dramatic now,” he says. “I was thinking more of using you as a…diversion.”
“Ah yes,” I say with a sneer. “We’ve noticed you guys are pretty enamored with that tactic.”
Mordred drops his smile as if he’s just caught whiff of a pungent fart. “And yet you always fall for it,” he says. “Why change something that’s working? You already saw your precious Arthur and his ilk rushing to save you. You’re the perfect bait while we go on to higher pursuits.”
My stomach heaves, threatening to make me sick. “Why do you want to open the Gates of Hell?” I ask. “Do you really hate this world so much that you want to see it completely destroyed?”
“Yes,” Mordred says bitterly. He casts me a long, pensive look. “It is my destiny. Or, rather, that of my mother, I’m just picking the reins up where she left off.”
“Your mother?” I ask. He is Carman’s third son, isn’t he?
Nibs shakes with repressed laughter at my stunned look.
“AC!” someone shouts.
A squat, burly Fey jogs over to us as we make our way into the forest, a long lance held loosely over his shoulder like a fishing rod. His human face bears the same strange tattoos Mordred carries over his whole body.
“We’ve picked up a tail,” the Fey says pointing to the side where the last of the troop is trickling into the woods.
Along the eastern horizon line, the first streaks of pink are cutting through the greying sky, dissipating the fog to reveal a strange forest of stone columns rising from the earth in a gigantic, tortuous maze.
“Knights?” Mordred asks.
“Not sure,” the other Fey replies. “We only spied one individual before it ducked out of sight again.”
Mordred nods. “Let’s go check it out,” he says, before turning to Nibs who’s having a hard time controlling his mirth. “You know where to take her,” he adds, steering Nessie away and trotting off to the maze of stone pillars, the squat Fey loping at his side without any difficulty. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Nibs finally lets out a loud whoop of laughter.
“What?” I ask testily.
“You have no idea who Mordred’s mother is, do you?” he snorts. “Do you even know what AC means?”
I scowl at him. “I’m not stupid,” I say. “Everyone knows it means air conditioning. Although I have no idea why someone would want to be named after an appliance.”
Nibs’s chortling turns into full guffaws, cut short when he trips over my chain. I watch him eat dirt and let out a chuckle of my own.
“Karma’s a bitch,” I say.
Nibs gets back up hastily, rubbing his nose angrily. “AC stands for Antichrist,” he says, spitting.
It’s my turn to nearly lose my balance. “What?”
“It’s more of an inside joke, really,” Nibs adds, unconcerned. “But as in every joke, there is a foundation of truth.”
I creep after Nibs, unresisting, with only the sound of branches cracking under our feet to breech our silence. I’m simply unable to form one coherent thought, let alone speak.
When Nibs said Antichrist, did he mean
someone who leads people astray? Or does he truly believe Mordred’s the devil’s spawn? Did the devil ever procreate? Sister Marie-Clémence always liked to threaten me with one of the seven Princes of Hell whenever possible. Perhaps she got her facts wrong and some of them are actually Princesses, unless demons can switch sexes like a bunch of clownfish, and one of them is Mordred’s mother….
I rack my brains, trying to remember their names. Lucifer and Satan are the obvious choices, but there’s also Mammon, and Leviathan, and Beelzebub, and—
Wait, what am I doing? Who cares who sired him? Evil is evil and Mordred’s off to unleash all those demons onto our world!
My manacles clink together as I clench my hands impotently. I need to find a way to get out of here and warn the others before it’s too late.
“Not thinking of running away, are you?” Mordred asks, suddenly at my side again.
“Of course not—” I start, but a wave of nausea prevents me from finishing my answer and Mordred laughs.
“Ah, I’d forgotten you guys are more sensitive to lies and such nonsense,” he says.
“And you aren’t?” I ask.
“It doesn’t affect us Dark Sidhe as much,” Mordred says with a shrug. “Perhaps because we’re so much closer to Hell than you are. But let me reassure you, that won’t last much longer.” My lack of response seems to annoy him, and he adds, “I thought you might like to know it wasn’t a knight who was after you, yet, just your weird groupie.”
I keep my mouth firmly shut for once and, after a while, Mordred grows bored with me and motions Nessie to the head of the line, leaving me to struggle after Nibs.
By the time the sun’s high in the sky, I feel no better than one of Mordred’s draugar, dragging my feet through the carpet of dry leaves and fallen branches that covers the forest floor in an ever-thickening layer. Yet Mordred pushes us on, with no regard for any of our welfare. Granted, only I seem to be suffering at all, which might be the point. Mordred is the supposed descendent of some Prince of Hell or other, after all.
“Stop grumbling to yourself and step it up,” Nibs says, yanking on my chain.
I stagger forward and Nibs lets out a disgusted grunt.
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