by Darby Kaye
Mouth hanging open in bewilderment, Cor stared at Bann while Shay stifled a laugh with another wince. Rescuing the boy, she gestured toward the backyard. “Let him out first.”
Cor followed the dog over to the door. “Hey. Watch it,” he complained when Max shoved past him and disappeared outside, the boy at his tail. Morning air drifted in.
Trying to remember how Bann took his coffee, Shay took two mugs from the cupboard. “Cream, right?”
“Please.”
They sat at the table in silence, sipping the brew. The earthy aroma of coffee mingled with the rain-scented breeze wafting through the half-opened door. From the backyard came Cor’s voice, ordering Max to pee faster, boyo.
Shay chuckled. “Where did he get that from, I wonder?”
“Clearly, you have not driven across the country with an eight-year-old.”
She leaned forward to peer out the door. “He’s so much like you, Bann.”
“Aye, he is. Although there a great deal of his mother in him as well.”
“Like what?”
“Well…” He paused.
Smooth move. Shay reached over and laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have asked.” He doesn’t want to talk about his dead wife with someone he only met two days ago.
Bann’s hand covered hers. “It’s all right.” He squeezed before letting go. “Like Elizabeth, he loves animals. You probably already guessed that.”
Shay nodded. “What else?”
“He can be stubborn—a trait he inherited from me, but Elizabeth had her share as well. We butted heads on many occasions. About many things.” An odd expression flickered across his face. “But he’s a good lad. A better son than I am a father.”
“Most parents think that.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Bann leaned back and stretched out his legs. His bare feet brushed against Shay’s naked toes.
“Sorry,” they said, pulling away at the same time.
Jumping up, Shay grabbed her mug. “Want some more coffee, or should I start breakfast?” She gestured at the skillet already setting on top of the stove. “I can fix eggs again or—”
“Shay.” Bann rose more slowly. “You do not have to cook for us all the time. While I appreciate that we’re your guests, I am capable of pulling my weight around here. As is Cor. Until we find a place of our own, consider us your willing servants.” He spread his arms wide.
She tried not to stare at the swell of chest and shoulder muscles under the cheap T-shirt. Keeping her tone light, she said, “Make it willing slaves and we’ve got a deal.”
“Done. What is your first command, m’lady?”
For some reason, the image of Bann shirtless, carrying his son in his arms, flashed through her mind. Don’t go there, she warned herself. She pointed to the backyard. “Fetch the minions. And make sure they don’t track in muddy prints. In fact”—she snagged a couple of rags from under the sink and handed them to him—“here.” She gave an imperious wave. “Now, away with you.”
She laughed when he bowed his head, then left, sliding the patio door closed behind him. After checking on the sláinte nettle brew, she fished out the sachet and dropped it on a saucer to use again later, then poured herself a mug. She drank as fast as the heat would allow. Within just a few moments, the pounding in her head began to ease. Humans would give a fortune for this stuff. Too bad it doesn’t work on them.
A shout drew her attention to the yard. She moved over to the window and cranked it open.
Flailing a rag, Cor was chasing Bann around the patio in a game of locker room towel-snapping. The man wielded another rag. Moving with grace even on bare feet, the father dodged and twisted, making his son work for every hit.
As Shay watched, she saw the training behind the game. The way the Knight would push the boy to stretch every muscle. To perfect hand-eye coordination. To think strategically while attacking or defending.
Meanwhile, Max darted about them, almost tripping Bann a few times, but surprisingly, never Cor. In fact, the more Shay observed, the more she noticed that Cor and Max seemed to dance together to team up on the man. She laughed when the boy scored a direct hit on his father’s butt. Bann gave an un-Knightly yelp. Panting, he stopped and held up a hand.
“Wimp,” Cor gasped. He sucked on the back of his hand where Bann had stung him a few minutes earlier.
“I am not. I, um, simply didn’t want us to be late for breakfast.” He rubbed his backside, then tugged down the waist of his jeans a few inches to check his battle wound. Shay caught a glimpse of the top of a rounded buttock. “Oh, well struck, lad. You’ve left a welt.”
“Maybe you need some sláinte brew.” Cor pointed to his dad’s behind, face alight with mischief. “I bet Shay could help you wipe some on your butt.” He wiggled his bottom in case his dad didn’t get it.
Shay stifled another laugh. Her amusement faded when Bann stiffened.
“What did ye just say?”
Cor froze in a perfect deer-in-the-headlight stance. “Nothing.”
Bann stabbed his finger at the ground in front of him. “Come here.”
“I was just kidding around—” Cor kept a safe distance, twisting the rag into knots.
“Now!” Bann barked.
Shay wanted to call out to the Knight to let it go. Cor was just being a boy, she thought. With a sinking heart and sadness for the end of the play, she watched as Cor shuffled over. Thinking about yesterday, she held her breath. He’s not going to hit him, is he?
Tossing the rag aside, Bann grabbed Cor by the arm. “That was inappropriate.”
“Sorry,” Cor whispered, eyes wide.
“Ye mind yer tongue. I’ll not have me son making cheeky remarks toward a lady who has shown us nothing but the highest of courtesy. Ye ken?”
Cor nodded.
“I dinna hear ye.”
“I-I understand.”
Bann let go. Cor stepped back, white-faced. Even from a distance, Shay could see him fighting tears. Swiping one away that tried to make a run for it, he sniffed and whispered something too low for Shay to catch. The man’s features softened.
“No tears, now.” He dropped to one knee and gathered Cor in his arms. The boy buried his face in his father’s shoulder.
It was the look on Bann’s face that made Shay step away from the window, her eyes stinging. A better son than I am a father. She blew out a shaky breath, then picked up the mug of sláinte nettle brew and drained it. After pouring another mug for Bann, she began pulling together breakfast.
A few minutes later, man, boy, and dog entered the kitchen. Shay noticed Cor clinging to Bann’s hand as they stepped through the door. Shay wondered at what age children stopped holding hands with their dads. Too soon, she thought, grateful for her own father’s strong and tender relationship with her and her brother. The old sorrow made her sigh. She mentally counted how many years it had been since her father had died under the paws of goblins during a solitary hunt in the foothills, leaving the family reeling with grief.
“And just what are you doing?” Bann walked over, took the carton of eggs from Shay, and shooed her toward the table. “You. Take a seat while we prepare the meal. You”—he pointed at Cor—“fetch butter and milk.”
“Fine by me.” After topping off her mug, Shay sat down and stretched out her legs, resting her feet on an empty chair as she cradled the drink in her hands. “There’s a cup of potion on the counter for you, by the way.” With a sigh of contentment, she settled back at the table.
After downing the brew, Bann began directing Cor on the fine art of making scrambled eggs; as they bustled about, he teased the boy to soothe the sting of the scolding.
Standing guard at the toaster on bread duty, Cor began flipping the butter knife, trying to catch it by the handle.
Bann glanced over. “Hold it by the point. And you’re throwing it too hard. Here, watch.” Abandoning the eggs sizzling in the skillet, he took the knife and gave a flick of his wrist
. The knife flipped end over end in a languid motion before the handle slapped down on his palm. He passed it back to Cor. “Try again, but mind the toast or you’ll be eating the burnt ones.”
Five minutes later, all three gathered for a breakfast of overcooked eggs and undercooked toast. While they ate, Shay noticed Bann staring ahead as he chewed, a faint line between his brows.
“Dad?”
“Cor.”
“Since we’re going to stay here, are you going to start training me again? Like, with weapons and stuff?” He smashed his eggs with the fork’s tines and licked them off as he waited for the answer.
“Can’t wait to learn how to hunt goblins?” Shay grinned at the boy. “And earn your torc?”
Cor beamed back. “Hey, Dad. You should start wearing a torc, too, since you’re a Knight again. We can get you a new one, can’t we?”
“Your father has always been a Knight, Cor.” The words tumbled out of Shay’s mouth before she could stop them. “It’s a person’s actions that make him or her a Knight, not what they wear. At least, that’s what my dad used to tell me.”
“A wise man,” Bann said. “What else did he tell you?”
Aware of Cor listening to their conversation, Shay tried to put into words the lessons her dad had taught her, so that the boy would understand. “Well, that there is nobility in an honest day’s labor. That our elders are to be respected and our children, cherished. That this round world and all Her inhabitants are worthy of our devotion. And it’s love as much as blood that binds us together.” Shay blushed at her words. Where the hell did that come from? I sound like a frikkin’ Hallmark commercial. She looked down at her plate and began peeling the crust off her toast.
“As I said earlier.” Bann’s quiet voice pulled her head up. Their gazes snapped together. “A wise man, your father.”
11
“I’M NOT EVEN SURE where to begin.” Bann stood at the island, the morning newspaper open to the real estate section in front of him. At the sink, Cor was drying the last of the forks and knives and putting them away. “Where do most of our people live?” The words our people seemed foreign in his mouth.
“On the west side near the foothills, to be closer to the goblins’ territory. Easier to hunt them that way.” Shay rummaged through the bookshelves. “I’ve got a map of High Springs around here somewhere. One Knight I know lives right up at the base of the foothills, practically on the doorstep of the goblins’ den.”
“Why so close?”
“Because he’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Shay said absently as she continued to look.
Bann cleared his throat. When Shay looked over, he nodded toward Cor, eyebrows raised meaningfully.
“Oh. Right. Excuse my language, buddy. Again.”
“S’okay. Dad says it all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Yeah, you do.” Cor joined his father, climbing up on a stool next to him. “You say it under your breath when you’re driving.” The boy lowered his voice. “‘Use yer bleedin’ turn signal, ye son of a—’”
A deep rumble from Max made all three of them freeze. The dog rose from his bed in the corner of the kitchen, hackles bristling. Keeping low, he crept toward the back door, lips writhing as he growled a warning. Cor jumped down and started after him.
“No.” Bann snagged his son and pushed him to the woman. “Stay here with Shay.”
Joining the dog, Bann peered out, iron blade already in hand. He scanned the yard and the park beyond, then slid the door open. Before he could catch hold of the dog’s collar, Max shoved past him. With a roar, the dog bolted across the yard and disappeared into the jumble of boulders. Almost immediately, his bark became more savage, promising death to any creature that came near. Over the hound, Bann could hear voices. They rose, mocking the dog, one of them yapping back.
Bann stepped out, every atom in his body on alert. He paused in the center of the patio. In spite of the warmth of the midmorning sun, icy feet ran along his spine and down his arms, making his skin prickle. “Max!” He gave a sharp whistle. The dog appeared, his movements jerky with fury. Trotting over, he growled back over his shoulder every couple of steps as if to say My pack. My territory. Just give me a reason.
Bann grabbed Max’s collar. “What is it, boyo?” In answer, half a dozen figures stepped out from behind the boulders.
Dressed in black T-shirts and camo pants, and with too many facial piercings to ever get through airport security, the men—the creatures—approached. Their arm muscles appeared distorted, too knotty to be human, and their fingers were abnormally long, with enlarged joints. The texture of their brown skin reminded Bann of beef jerky. Dark eyes peered around as they examined Shay’s house and the surrounding land. Shaved bald, their faces were scarred with designs etched into both cheeks like a bad caricature of a Maori warrior. Reaching the edge of the patio, they fanned out. Three of the figures carried spears, medieval affairs with wooden hafts and bronze tips. The others bore knives and, in one case, a club. Spotting the weapon in Bann’s hands, they raised their own.
Outnumbered, Bann thought. At that moment, Shay appeared at his elbow and pushed the dog toward the house. Or, perhaps not.
“Max. Inside.” As the dog disappeared, she whispered. “Are those what I think they are?” She held her bronze dagger at the ready.
“Aye. Fir Bolgs.”
“Should have known by their fashion choices. Will the wards kept them out?”
“They should.” He tightened the grip on his knife and marched out to meet them, Shay on his heels. Halting within striking distance, he pointed the weapon at the foremost one. “No farther,” he said in Gaelic.
“Speak English, Fey bitch.” The nearest Fir Bolg, a gangly young male, spat out the name. “This is America, not Éireann.”
“Aye, ye’re right, whelp.” Bann smiled coldly. “For if this were Éireann, ye’d still be suckling on yer dam’s tit.”
The other Fir Bolgs guffawed. Mouth working, the young male swelled. With a curse, he charged, spear aimed at the Knight’s gut. Bann yanked Shay behind him. Ignoring her squawk of protest, he grasped his knife in both hands and slammed it down on the spear’s haft, just behind the head. The tip dipped, pulling the Fir Bolg off-balance. He lurched toward the Knight. Planting his feet, Bann halted his adversary’s advance in the most efficient way he knew.
By driving his blade into the Fir Bolg’s throat.
The creature gagged on blood and iron. Dropping his spear, he clawed at his neck. Bann twisted his blade. With a wet sound, the creature slid off the knife and slumped to the ground. Viscous blood, in a shade of red so dark it was almost black, began pooling around his head like crude oil.
Bann sprang back, ready for the next attack. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shay ready at his left arm. The shield arm. Part of him wanted to thrust her back into the house. The other part was grateful for the fellow warrior beside him. They both tensed when the other Fir Bolgs crouched in preparation. Hefting their weapons higher, they started to charge.
“No, you fools!”
The Fir Bolgs stopped as if their feet were suddenly nailed to the ground. Growling in frustration, they looked back at the boulder field. As did Bann and Shay.
Another Fir Bolg appeared from behind the nearest hoodoo rock. He was dressed like the others but with white tattoos also decorating his forehead; they started just above each eyebrow and curled up and over his shaved head. On closer inspection, Bann realized the tats were stylized antlers. In his hand, he held a rod about the length of his arm. The Knight noticed it was topped with a single antler prong sharpened to a needle point.
The Fir Bolg halted a few yards away, motioning the others back with his baton. Pursing his lips, he stared down at the dead youth, then up at Bann and Shay. “Typical action of a Tuatha Dé Danaan whenever our kind meet—kill the Fir Bolgs.”
“He attacked first,” Shay said.
“That’s the excuse your people gave each othe
r when they invaded our land those thousands of years ago. ‘Oh, whatever shall we do about the Fir Bolgs,’” he said in a falsetto. “‘They resent being forced from their homeland by a bunch of Fey pretties. I know, let’s slaughter them before they can harm us. Then, we’ll start on the Amandán.’”
“The Goddess Danu gave Éireann to us,” Shay said. “It is ours by divine right—”
“Oh, please. Spare me the speech. The humans said the same thing about this New World before they fell upon the Native Americans.”
Bann laid a hand on Shay’s arm, stilling her protests. “What do you want, Fir Bolg?”
The creature held up the baton. “I am Sreng, leader of my people.” He grinned, revealing sharpened teeth. “And we all know who you are. Bannerman Boru. Knight of the Tuatha Dé Danaan. Long-son of the High King, Brian Boru.”
At Boru’s name, the other Fir Bolgs surged forward again. Sreng made a cutting motion with his hand. “I said hold! We were commanded to deliver the message only.” He scowled over his shoulder at the pack. “Or do you wish to explain to the master why you killed the Knight without orders? No? Then stand down.” Sreng turned back and pointed at the dead youth. “While you were within your rights to destroy that one, be warned, Knight. We always repay blood with blood.”
Bann flicked his knife. Crimson drops fanned across the concrete at Sreng’s feet. “As do I.”
Sreng sneered. “Tell us, Boru. Have you enjoyed the gifts we’ve left for you? Antlers by your camper? The bird outside this house?” He chortled at Bann’s expression. “So, now that you understand there is no hiding from our master, he has a proposal for you.”
“‘Master’? You mean Cernunnos.”
Sreng ran a hand along his forehead, tracing the marks with his fingers in almost a lover’s caress. “Yes, the Stag Lord. The Horned One.”
Bann’s mind whirled. How did Fir Bolgs come to be allied with him? A soft gasp made him glance back. His son stood in the doorway, both hands clamped on Max’s collar. “Stay there, Cor. And keep the hound with you.” Feeling like he was waging a losing battle, he braced himself. “The proposal?”