The Stag Lord

by Darby Kaye

  “I know.” But not as much as I do.

  A long minute later, Cor straightened, dragging a forearm across his face. Lashes pointy with tears, he stared across the room. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “To bed with you, then.” He blinked in surprise when his son didn’t argue but headed for the bathroom across the hall. “Brush your teeth. Our things are on the counter.” As the boy took care of business, Bann rose with a sigh and pulled the covers back. The scent of clean cotton made him ache for home. He made sure the curtains were drawn tight against the night. Against all ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties and things that go bump in the night. The old Scottish saying rang through his head.

  After a few minutes, Cor returned. Crawling into bed, he winced as he shifted around, trying to get comfortable with the sling. Bann refrained from tucking the comforter around his son. Those days are long gone.

  “I’ll be back in a little while.” He clicked off the lamp and stood.

  “Dad?”

  “Cor.”

  Silence. Then, faintly, “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, then. Good night.” Bann started for the door.

  “Uh, Dad?”

  “Cor.”

  “Um…” A slight rustle. “Never mind.”

  “Do you want me to stay with you? Until you fall sleep?”

  “No, that’s okay. B-but, would you leave the door open?”

  “To be certain.” Unable to resist, Bann leaned over and pulled the covers up to the boy’s chin. Pressing his forehead against Cor’s, he breathed in the scent of his child. It was a mix of sweat and the fake mint of toothpaste and a whiff of sláinte nettle potion, and underneath all, the unique scent that was simply Cor.

  His son.

  His heart. The piece of him that had leapt out of his chest on the day of the boy’s birth and was ambling around in the world.

  A lump set up camp in his throat when Cor snaked an arm around his neck and hugged him with a surprising fierceness. Even after all the times he had stomped on his son for simply being an eight-year-old boy, Cor’s ability to forgive his less-than-stellar parenting almost drove Bann to his knees.

  “Codladh sumh, lad.”

  “‘Kay.” Cor rolled over on his uninjured side and burrowed deeper under the comforter. Tearing himself away from wanting to stand there all night and watch him sleep, Bann left, leaving the door ajar.

  Taking a moment to shove down the swelling in his throat, Bann took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand across his face, then headed back to the kitchen.

  A fire snapped and popped in the hearth. It blessed the room with warmth and light and the primal aroma of burning wood. Shay bustled about the kitchen, preparing a pair of trays already set with bowls of reheated stew and biscuits. Each tray was graced with a tumbler half-filled with an amber liquid.

  Guilt stabbed Bann. Because of me and mine, that monster is lurking about this fine woman’s home. “Shay Doyle,” he declared. “You are in danger.”

  “No. I’m in the kitchen.” She raised a hand, forestalling him. “And before you start, I get it. The bird was a warning, right? From someone or something you two are apparently running from? And now that someone or something knows you’re here. With me. Thus, the whole”—she deepened her voice—“‘Shay Doyle, you are in danger.’”

  “You must understand—”

  “I’m not finished. Now, you told me we’re protected if we stay indoors, since my home’s warded against attacks from most supernatural beings.” At Bann’s nod, she continued. “Which means that person or thing is constrained by the Old Ways. Modern inventions such as gunpowder, electricity, and so on won’t work for them, right? And they can’t enter unless invited and all that?”

  “Well, yes. As far as I know.”

  “It’s like a vampire is after you guys.” She grinned. “Just kidding.” She stuck a spoon into each bowl of stew. “Look, for right now, we’re all safe. Cor is healing. And I’m not about to waste food.”

  “I cannot ask you to—”

  “Dude, I’m, no, we are Tuatha Dé Danaan. Magical warriors of ancient Éireann. Children of the war goddess Danu. You know, fellow soldiers and all that. Ye ken?” Her eyes twinkled as she slipped into a brogue.

  Sensing he would not win this fight, or maybe I do not wish to, Bann inclined his head. “Aye, I ken.”

  “I thought we’d eat by the fire.” Shay indicated the trays. “It’s too creepy being at the table with that thing just on the other side of the glass.”

  “I agree.” He stepped closer. “Is that whiskey?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I thought we could use something a bit stronger now, instead of later. Grab a tray and go make yourself comfortable.”

  Bann picked up the nearest one and carried it over to the sofa facing the hearth. After placing the tray on the coffee table, he scanned the bookshelves while he waited, too pumped full of adrenaline to sit.

  A wide variety of titles, including obscure texts on medicinal plants of the Rocky Mountains, were shelved next to paperback thrillers and biographies of famous women. Framed photos were scattered between the books. Judging from the clothing of the people in them, Bann guessed they were all taken in the last sixty or seventy years. He noticed one picture showing a man with a fiery beard in a tie-dyed shirt, holding up his fingers in a peace symbol while his other hand held a hatchet straight out of a horror movie. Almost every person in the photos sported red hair; most held a variety of blades, including knives, daggers, and in one case a sword. A few of the younger people, both men and women, proudly flexed tattooed arms. The same tat as his. Family members, Bann guessed.

  One newer photo caught his attention. It showed a barely teenaged Shay in faded jeans and a pink T-shirt, her long hair held back with a matching pink headband. She was leaning on the railing of a redwood deck, beaming at the camera. On closer inspection, Bann saw she clutched a hunting knife proudly in one hand.

  “That was taken on the first day of my apprenticeship. Outside of my master’s house.” She joined him with her tray. “Gods, I was a goofy-looking thirteen-year-old.”

  “Did you train here in Colorado?”

  “I did. Right here in High Springs. In fact, I grew up here. I’m that rare breed—a Colorado native. I still have lots of family here.” She gestured with her head for him to take a seat on the sofa. “How about you—Pennsylvania, right?” She let out a low whistle. “I hear the goblins back in those old coal mines are some kind of fierce.”

  “Aye, the few beasties that are left.” He hesitated, then continued. “I was born in Éireann, however.”

  “I thought as much. When did you come over?”

  “Early part of the century. That is to say, the early part of the previous century.”

  “Wow, you don’t look a day over thirty.”

  An unexpected vanity surprised him. “Thirty, eh? Well, it’s been a stiff year.”

  Their shared amusement was as warm and welcome as the stew.

  Sitting on either ends of the sofa, they ate in silence for a few moments. The wind played a dirge in the chimney, causing the fire to blaze now and again. Rain, on the verge of becoming sleet, drummed on the roof in a hit-ormiss fashion. While Bann ate, he found himself peeking at Shay out of the corner of his eye.

  She sat with one leg curled under her, bowl in hand as she dug into her stew with a gusto that matched his own. Her ponytail was draped over a shoulder like a fox stole, shades of russet in the golden strands. She picked up her glass and raised it in the air. “Your health.”

  Picking up his own drink, Bann leaned over and clinked it against hers, sloshing his whiskey over the edge and into hers in the old custom. “To yours as well.”

  The drink was liquid peat smoke in Bann’s mouth. He let it trickle down his throat, embracing the burn. Placing his empty bowl back on the tray, he sank into the softness of the cushion. Full belly. Neat whiskey. Safe ref
uge. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. For just a moment.

  A half-hour later, he jerked awake at a soft rattling sound.

  The fire was a red smear in the darkened room. He pushed off the sofa, wincing as sleeping muscles and joints protested about having to move after they had just gotten comfortable. He told them to shut up.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” said a low voice from the kitchen.

  Shay stood guard by the back door, armed with her bronze blade. The blinds, bunched to one side, swung back and forth. “Wanted a clear view,” she explained, barely speaking above a whisper. When Bann joined her, she gestured with the knife toward the yard. “It’s gone.”

  “The magpie?”

  “Yeah. Of course, a coyote may have simply snatched it. They’ll eat anything. But…” Her voice trailed off.

  Bann scanned the shadows. Boulders, most of them higher than his head, squatted around the property, each one looking like a giant hobgoblin taking a crap. Junipers and piñon trees, twisted into multi-limbed monsters, bowed with each gust of wind. “…but probably not,” he said, finishing her sentence. Not with my luck. Of which I have none. Unless you count the shitty kind.

  “So.” Shay examined the point of her blade. “Are you going to tell me who or what is after you and Cor and why you refuse to have anything to do with your people? And why you’re so dead set against your son knowing there are other Fey in High Springs?”

  “No.”

  “To which question?”

  “All of them.”

  “Why? Because I’m Tuatha Dé Danaan, too?”

  “Dad?”

  Cor appeared, yawning as he made his way toward them, his bare feet silent on the wood floor. Bann stepped away to intercept him. Behind him, he could hear the clatter as Shay closed the blinds.

  “And just what are you doing up, boyo?”

  “I guess I’m hungry after all. Is there any stew left?”

  Bann sighed in exasperation, secretly grateful for the distraction. “Why didn’t you sup with us earlier? Now Shay will have to bother with—”

  “Shay does not mind in the least,” Shay said. She opened the refrigerator door. Light spilled out into the room. Bann noticed her knife had disappeared. She bent over and peered inside, rummaging about. “How about a sandwich?”

  “Yes, please.” Cor walked over and joined her.

  “And maybe some ice cream afterwards?”

  “Yes, please!”

  “He doesn’t need ice cream.”

  “Yes, he does,” they said at the same time. Grinning, they bumped fists.

  “Hah! Two against one,” Cor crowed. “We win.”

  Hiding a grin, Bann leaned a hip on the kitchen table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I demand a recount.”

  Shay leaned closer to Cor. “Has he always had trouble with numbers?”

  Cor hooted with laughter. “Yeah.”

  “You know I can hear you,” Bann said. He sank down in a chair. “And just out of curiosity, what flavor of ice cream are we talking about?”

  An hour later, Bann pulled the covers higher over his sleeping son. Stripping in the darkness, he left his clothes in a pile on the floor. He hesitated, looking down at his body, then tugged his boxer briefs free of the jeans and pulled them back on. Something about sleeping naked in a stranger’s bed—a strange woman’s bed—with nothing on but his tat just didn’t sit right with him.

  He crawled into the other bed with a sigh, reveling in the luxury of a full-length mattress after a year of sleeping in a cramped bunk. Hands linked behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. The image of the mutilated bird poked at him. How did he find us here? After so many months and so far from home? I hadn’t even decided which route to take until two days ago. And why hasn’t he attacked? Why was he content with wrecking the camper and leaving the bird, clearly a message of some sort?

  Bann rolled to his side. The sooner we leave, the safer for Shay. He smiled into his pillow. ‘Twas a bit of luck, however, running into her—she’s quite a Healer. A voice whispered in his head. She’s quite a woman, too, eh?

  Ignoring the voice, he started ticking off what he needed to accomplish before they left tomorrow. Repair the windows on the camper, restock supplies, and convince a certain Healer that her patient is well enough to travel. He dreaded number three on the list. Something told him she would not let them go without a fight.

  He fell asleep, smiling.

  6

  PADDING PAST THE GUEST room on bare feet, Shay headed to the kitchen. Dressed in a ragged pair of sweats she used in lieu of pajama pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt emblazoned with the words Pikes Peak Marathon, she ran her fingers through hair still wet from a morning shower. She winced when Max came trotting after her with a clicky-click of dog nails on the wood floor. “Dude,” she whispered. “Can’t you tiptoe?”

  Better get the coffee going before Bann— She paused in the middle of the kitchen. Maybe he doesn’t even drink coffee. Maybe he’s one of those heathens who don’t worship at the feet of the almighty bean. She shrugged and flipped on the coffeemaker she had prepped the night before. “More for me.” Just in case, she left a clean mug next to the machine.

  She leaned over the sink and opened the blinds, holding her breath when they clinked against the pane. Another gray day gave her the finger; low clouds obscured the new sun. Fine. Be that way, she said to the sky. She moved over to the patio door and peered through the slats.

  Nothing except for a dark smear on the concrete slab. “Yeeesh.” Thoughts of bleach and a power washer zipped through her head. After ratcheting the slats to one side, she opened the door and sent Max out for a bladder break, ordering him away from the leftover blood. Luckily, the dog seemed content with marking a favorite boulder before trotting back inside and burying his muzzle in his food dish. Pet-parent duties completed, she poured a cup of coffee and walked back to the living room. Sinking down in a corner of the sofa, she tucked her feet under her and allowed herself to enjoy the delight of the first cup of coffee.

  After a few sips, she began thinking about Bann’s reaction over the antlers by the camper, then to the prong shoved into the magpie’s head. She shuddered and took another sip as if to cleanse the image from her mind with a jolt of java. Antlers. Why antlers? Our enemy has always been goblins, the scum of Celtic bestiary. The only creature I know with antlers is—

  She almost spilled the drink when she leaped to her feet and hurried to the bookshelf. Her fingertips danced along spine after spine before stopping at a large volume. Returning to the sofa with book and mug, she sat down and opened it, flipping through several pages before she found what she was looking for. The back of her neck tightened at the illustration.

  In the center of the page, a semihuman creature sat cross-legged, his naked, wiry body seemingly covered in short hair like a deer’s pelt. A thick neckpiece hung around his neck, as if in mockery of the gold torc worn by every Knight and apprentice to brag to the world they had made their first goblin kill. A stray thought wafted through her head. Where is Bann’s torc?

  But it was the creature’s head that made her skin want to crawl off her skeleton and hide. She had always thought the picture of the ancient demigod was clown-creepy, even though he was supposed to represent a benign fertility. It was the distorted features, eyes too wide, chin too long, ears too pointed, as much as the set of antlers curling out of the bulging forehead. It was as if the artist had caught the shapeshifter in mid-transformation from man to beast.

  Tearing her eyes from the illustration, Shay began reading. “Cernunnos. Pronounced KER noo nohs.” She paused when a sudden gust of wind slapped the house. Ashes drifted from the fireplace like a burnt ghost. After a moment, she continued. “Also known as the Stag Lord. A shapeshifter, he is able to take on the form of a large stag, although some legends claim he can transform into a wolf as well. Found throughout Western Europe and the British Isles, the ancient Celts considered him a god of
fertility and nature and wealth. One tale, however, portrays the Stag Lord in a more sinister light. It was rumored Cernunnos, for reasons unknown, sided with the Norsemen who had come to invade Ireland. During the Battle of Clontarf, near present-day Dublin, the creature slew many a Celt with both magic and antler, almost winning the battle for the Norsemen. But in the midst of the Stag Lord’s triumph, a bold warrior struck him a mighty blow. Sorely wounded, Cernunnos was carried from the battlefield by his minions, after swearing vengeance on the warrior and his descendents. That hero was none other than the High King, Brian Boru, who ruled Ireland from 1002 to 1014 AD. It was rumored that the Boru was not mortal but rather a member of the mystical race of warriors known as the Tuatha Dé Danaan.”

  She turned the page and stared at the fantastical illustration of the King. He was clad in a dun-colored belted tunic trimmed at the hem in a running Celtic rope pattern of dark green. A cloak, the same shade of green as the embroidered design, flowed from his broad shoulders, and his dark hair was long and free except for a thin braid at each temple. Eyes blazing battle blue, Brian Boru held his sword aloft in both hands as he charged the foe on the field of Clontarf. Shay could almost hear him shouting the ancient war cry: Faugh a ballagh! “Clear the way!”

  Down the hall, a door opened and closed with a soft snick. Then Bann appeared. Barefooted and clad in jeans and a T-shirt, the Knight stood running his fingers through his rumpled hair. “Good morning to you.” He cocked his head toward the kitchen. “And would that be coffee I’m smelling?”

  Shay nodded, mind still reeling from the revelation. Her head swiveled of its own accord to watch as he walked across the living room and into the kitchen. He greeted Max when the dog passed by on his way to flop down by Shay’s feet. She continued to watch while Bann opened the refrigerator in search of cream.

  His back to her, he spoke over a shoulder. “Is there a reason you are gawking at me like I’ve grown a goat’s head?”

  “Sorry. I was just…” Wrenching her gaze away, she looked down again at the picture of Brian Boru. She closed the book with a snap when Bann sauntered around the end of the sofa a minute later and took a seat in a nearby chair.