by Darby Kaye
“Lord Cernunnos has decided to forego vengeance upon the line of Boru. It has become a moot point. He now wants something more valuable to him.” Sreng gazed past him, a strange light in his eyes.
“Shay has nothing to do with this. She is only a healer—”
“Oh, the Stag Lord doesn’t want the female. Those he can have at will. No, the master desires something else.”
“Which is?”
Sreng licked his lip. “The boy.”
The boy? Bann frowned. What boy? For a moment, his mind refused to process the words. Then, horror dumped ice cubes in his bowels. “You mean my son?”
“You look so stricken—it is only a child. Rut with your female and breed another. Out of respect for the Old Ways, my master will give you until Samhain to decide.”
“Samhain.” Bann fought for time to allow his rational mind to catch up with the rest of him that begged to stop talking and start killing the creatures in front of him.
“Yes, Samhain. Or, as the humans call it, Halloween. Fitting, no?” Sreng bared his teeth, a shark’s smile. “It suits my master to take possession on that holy day. But after that, he will slaughter every Fey in the region and take the boy by force. Consider it a sacrifice by the one for the many.”
“Why does he want Cor?” Shay asked.
The leader ignored the question. “Samhain. Then we come for the boy. Freely given or no.”
At a gesture from Sreng, the rest of the pack began backing away, their eyes on the weapons in the Tuatha Dé Danaans’ hands and their own spearmen at the ready. Two of them dragged the dead one away by the feet; Sreng followed, the last to leave. Reaching the safety of the boulders, they disappeared into the maze of stone.
Eyes locked on the rocks, Bann choked down his fury. “Cor. Gather your things and wait for me by the front door.”
“Dad, I don’t want to…”
“Go!” He sucked in a deep breath as Cor scampered away, Max on his heels.
“Bann…” Shay began.
“You’re wrong, Shay Doyle,” Bann said before she could finish. “While I appreciate what you have done for us, we cannot stay here.”
He started after his son, then stopped. Without a word, he took her free hand. Raising it to his lips, he allowed himself one moment of warm skin beneath his mouth, one whiff of soap and honeysuckle lotion, before facing hell again.
He hurried through the house, pausing to scoop up the remaining personal items from the guest bath before joining Cor at the front door. Spotting the dog waiting next to his son, he cursed silently. This is a skirmish I do not need right now. “Say your farewells.”
“Dad, can’t we—”
“No. Now out the door with you.” Bann could feel the minutes ticking away in his head. I have scarcely one month to figure out how to keep Cor hidden from that monster.
“You said we were staying here.” Cor kept his fingers curled around Max’s collar. “You promised!”
Locking gazes with Shay, who had joined them, Bann pleaded silently with her. She sighed, then snapped her fingers at Max. “Come here, boy.”
“Cor, let him go,” Bann ordered.
“No!”
“Now, son.” Before I pick you up and throw you over my shoulder.
Blinking furiously, Cor uncurled his fingers. Max looked up at the boy’s face, then trotted over to Shay. She knelt down and wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck. Without a word, Cor opened the door and left.
Bann looked at Shay. “May the blessings of the Goddess be upon you,” he said softly in Gaelic. Keep her safe, he prayed to the same goddess, certain he was praying to empty air.
“And upon you and the child.”
Standing by the fuel pump, Bann massaged his neck, his body still buzzing from the encounter. For the last two hours, he had driven west, watching with a growing unease as clouds billowed up and over the mountains, until the need for gas forced him to stop in a mountain town so small, it had only the one service station. Even as he stood there, a few early flakes drifted down. Bleedin’ hell. And this truck on balding tires.
As the pump clicked off the gallons, he peered into the cab through the half-open window. Cor sat curled in a ball on the passenger side, a lump of misery.
“Care for a treat?”
His son deliberately turned away, an eight-year-old’s equivalent of flipping him the bird.
He clamped down on his own bitterness. “Use the restroom, then. We’re not stopping again for a long while.” The door squealed in protest when he opened it. Making a point of acting like the man didn’t exist, Cor climbed out and headed inside. Bann barely managed to refrain from smacking the boy on the skull when he walked past, the little shit.
A Hummer from a redneck’s wet dream rumbled into the parking lot. It pulled into the far corner of the lot and sat idling, its tinted windows masking the interior. Its chrome and size reminded Bann of the Transformers toys Cor used to play with not so long ago. Like last week.
Instincts whistled a warning. Finishing the fueling, he made a show of replacing the nozzle, then sauntered over to the store. Once inside, he peeked back out the windows. The Hummer sat motionless, renegade snowflakes dusting the black paint. Even inside, Bann could hear the low growl of its engine.
He looked around the store. A woman dressed in jeans and cowboy boots was purchasing a bag of pork rinds and chatting with the clerk about someone named Vikki. Over a door in the corner, a sign proclaimed that the restrooms were for customers only—all others had better just hold it.
The door opened. Cor walked out, drying his hands on his shirt. At Bann’s silent command, he rolled his eyes and ambled over, making sure to stop and examine as many things as he could along the way.
“Wait for me inside while I use the loo.”
“It’s called a restroom.” Cor pushed the disrespectful tone right to the line. “Not a loo.”
Bann ground his teeth. “Restroom, then. Do not go out to the truck until I return.”
Cor raised a shoulder just enough to show he heard but really didn’t give a rip, then walked over to a rack displaying cheap toys.
Locking the door behind him, Bann unzipped and aimed. His mind kept returning to the vehicle outside. Pee faster, boyo. After finishing his business, he hurried out. Not spotting Cor immediately, he spent a few moments cruising up and down the few aisles. Nothing.
“Can I help you, sir?’ asked the clerk.
“I’m looking for my son.”
“Young kid? Dark hair? Yeah, he went outside already.”
Bann hit the door hard. The Hummer was gone. So was Cor.
A distant growl yanked his head around. The mammoth vehicle was parked a block away, red taillights like rat eyes in the deepening gloom. Even as Bann started toward it, it revved up and roared away. Mocking him.
“Son of a bitch!” Bann bolted for his truck. Scrabbling for the handle, he heaved the door open and threw himself inside the cab. He turned on the ignition even as he pulled the door closed. “Come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath, desperate for the engine to crank. He punished the gas pedal, almost flooding the engine before it finally coughed to life. Swearing continuously under his breath—or was it praying?—he tore out of the parking lot, camper bouncing wildly behind him. He debated taking time to stop and unhitch the trailer, then decided against it. Flooring the pedal, he blasted through town, the Hummer going just fast enough to stay ahead of him. Snow began pelting the windshield. As he flipped on the wipers, the other vehicle took a violent turn off the highway onto a dirt road. It lurched dangerously to one side. For a moment, Bann was sure it would roll. Resisting the pull of gravity, it swerved, then straightened. Gravel and snow squirted from its tires.
Bann followed, losing speed as the camper balked like a stubborn mule on a lead line, while the truck protested about the ruts. Eyes locked on the Hummer’s taillights, he fought the steering wheel, desperate to keep up as the other vehicle sped around the curves, escaping higher
into the mountains. Each time the Hummer disappeared around a hillock, Bann had to force himself to keep breathing.
Suddenly, the Hummer skidded around another turn onto an even narrower road that was little more than a driveway. “Shite!” Bann stomped on the brake, barely making the turn in time. Pine branches raked the side of the massive vehicle ahead of him as it shoved its way through the trees. The driveway dead-ended in the yard of an abandoned cabin. The woods crowded the clearing, the shadows between the trunks made darker by the storm. Even as Bann slowed, the Hummer drove around the structure and disappeared.
So, it begins. He turned off the engine and let the truck roll to a halt. Gods, make me fast. Easing out of the cab, he closed the door with a soft click, then slid his knife free and crept forward. The snow increased, thick flakes powdering the ground and muffling his footsteps. Behind the building, doors slammed. Voices called back and forth, followed by a child’s cry of pain.
Terror drove a spike through Bann. Keeping low, he sprinted to the side of the cabin and flattened himself against it. The rough-hewn planks dragged at his clothes as he inched around the corner.
In front of a wooden shed on the verge of collapsing in on itself, a Fir Bolg held Cor captive. With one hand, the creature had the boy’s arms pinned behind him. The other hand pointed a deer-hunting knife at the boy’s face. The tip rested on the outside corner of Cor’s right eye. Nearby, four other Fir Bolgs leaned against the Hummer’s grill, three armed with knives. The fourth carried a club; an antler prong hung from a cord on his belt. Spotting the Knight, the one with the club bared his teeth—his fangs—and waved Bann forward.
“Join the party, Fey.”
Bann forced his feet to walk instead of charging the Fir Bolg who held his son. Cor’s eyes were stretched wide with terror. Even from a few yards away, he could see the small body trembling. “D-Dad?”
“Cor.” Bann locked gazes with the boy, willing that contact to hold the gibbering fear swamping his son at bay. “‘Twill be all right.” He walked closer, unconsciously relaxing his muscles in preparation for battle. The knife in his hand sang a solo of vengeance. He longed to unleash the choir in it.
After a few more steps, the leader held up a hand. “Close enough.” The Fir Bolg waggled his club. “Just so we understand each other. Make the wrong move and…” He stepped over and backhanded Cor across the face. Cor staggered, breathless with shock and pain. Only his captor’s hands kept him from falling to the ground. He hitched back a sob.
The warp spasm exploded in Bann’s chest. It flared outward, swelling muscles and tightening tendons so much, he felt his spine bowing. His vision narrowed until he could only see his enemies. Each whorl and notch of the scars on their faces stood out as if lit from behind by the fires of Hell. A corner of his mind whispered to him to wait. To not endanger the child.
A voice that was not his spoke through his mouth. Because there was no way his voice could sound that calm. “What do you want?”
“Why, retaliation, of course,” Club said. “For our friend you killed earlier.”
“And what will Sreng, or your master, do to you if you kill us?”
“Oh, we’re not going to kill you. We’re not suicidal. But we can make you suffer. On many levels.” Club nodded toward the one holding the knife on Cor.
The tip pressed into the innocent skin. A drop of blood welled up like a ruby tear. Cor cried out again. Bann lunged forward, only to yank himself to a halt when the knife moved to the boy’s throat.
“I don’t think so.” The Fir Bolg lifted the blade to his mouth and licked it clean, tongue flicking like a snake’s, then returned the tip. “Lose the weapon, or I start popping eyeballs. Do it!” he yelled when the Knight hesitated.
Bann forced his fingers apart. The knife fell with a tink on the rock-strewn soil already dusted with snow. The sound of Cor’s whimpers mingled with the wailing of the increasing wind.
“Down.” Club gestured toward the ground.
Bann dropped to his knees in the swirling flakes. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the remaining Fir Bolgs produced a length of baling wire and walked around him. He noticed with a detached satisfaction that they took care to approach from behind. Yanking his arms back, they tied his hands with the wire, making sure to tighten the strands until they cut into his wrists.
The leader pointed his club toward the cabin. “Let’s get started. Take the whelp inside while we take care of the Knight.”
12
FACE THROBBING, COR GASPED when his guard shoved him through the empty doorway of the shed. Losing sight of his father hurt worse than the blows. Another shove sent him stumbling forward. He tripped, landing on his hands and knees on the dirt floor. The sour reek of animal droppings mixed with the road-kill-baking-on-hot-asphalt stench of Fir Bolg burned his nose and mouth.
“Get up.” Fingers dug into his arms and dragged him to his feet. The creature hauled him into the far corner, then spun him around to face the door. He flinched when the Fir Bolg bent closer, almost cheek to cheek. “I want you to see what my friends did to your daddy,” he whispered. His lips brushed along Cor’s ear. Cor stopped breathing when the Fir Bolg licked him, tongue probing deeper, the saliva chilling in the cold air. Something crashed against the exterior. The building shuddered in sympathy. Straightening, the Fir Bolg laughed. “Damn. Looks like my friends started without me.”
Outside, voices hooted and snarled in a mix of taunts and commands. Through the cracks in the planks, Cor could see dark shapes moving back and forth, followed by the fat smack of something hitting flesh, over and over. Once, he heard his father, cursing with rage. Another flurry of movement. Another crash. Dust drifted down, barely discernible in the gloom of the windowless hut, the darkness made darker by the sound of the beating. With each blow, a grunt. Cor wanted to cover his ears.
Finally, it ceased.
A long minute later, the other Fir Bolgs appeared, two of them dragging Bann between them. They dropped him facedown a few feet from Cor. He lay motionless for a moment. One foot shifted, scraping along the dirt, as if its owner was trying to get to his feet. Cor couldn’t see his father’s face in the shadow. For some reason, he didn’t want to.
Club strolled in. Satisfaction twisted his face, a caricature of a jack-o’-lantern. He wiped the end of the bludgeon along Bann’s jean leg. “Get him up. He can’t see from down there.” The Fir Bolgs hauled the man to his knees, facing Cor.
Cor’s stomach heaved at the sight of his father. Bloody streaks masked Bann’s face. One eye was already swelling shut. The other blinked sluggishly. His father’s lips moved soundlessly, forming Cor’s name.
Grabbing Bann by the hair, Club yanked his head higher. “You awake? Good. I wouldn’t want you to miss the show.”
Cor whimpered when his captor ran a hand down his stomach, then gouged fingers into his side. Panic and a fear so primal he almost blacked out swamped him. He lurched backwards as the creature tickled him in a way that was meant to embarrass, to hurt. “Don’t touch me,” he screamed, his voice high and thin as a baby bird’s. He twisted and kicked out, trying to knock the hand away.
The Fir Bolg slapped him. Once. Twice. By the third time, points of light danced on the edge of his vision. Head swimming, he gagged on the blood from a cut lip. Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear his father’s hoarse cries. Thrashing sounds. The thump of the club. Cor moaned in terror.
It seemed to last forever. Then, the hands let him go. He dropped to his knees. Huddling on the dirt floor, he curled into a ball, certain the hands would be back. Or worse. He squeezed his eyes shut. A keening seemed to swell his skull.
Voices hooted and laughed. One barked out an order. Another thud, followed by a gasp of pain, echoed through the room. Footsteps shuffled past him. A few moments later, car doors opened and closed. The deep-throated rumble of an engine rose, then faded away in a crunch of gravel.
Silence filled the shed. It was the silence that jerked Cor out o
f his nightmare and lifted his head.
His father lay sprawled on his side, eyes closed. Filth and muck mixed with blood caked his face. Uncurling, Cor rolled to his hands and knees and crawled over. Laying a hand on his father’s side, he hitched in a breath when it landed on something warm and sticky. He looked down. Blood gloved his palm and fingers. More blood soaked his father’s entire right side.
“Dad?” He shook his father. “Dad, wake up.” A strangled sound made Cor breathe again. He scurried around the still form and began untwisting the wires. He froze at the whisper, then leaned over and placed his ear next to his father’s lips. “What’d you say?”
“You…all right?”
Cor shuddered at the memory of the Fir Bolg’s attack. “Y-yeah.” No. He attacked the wire again, freeing his father. “There’s blood all over your shirt.”
“Stabbed.” Bann rasped. “Help me…up.” He pushed himself to his knees with a grunt of pain, one hand holding onto Cor for support.
Cor wedged a shoulder under his father’s armpit on the uninjured side. He shifted his feet, straining to stand under the dead weight. Over his head, he could hear his father mumbling or chanting, his voice weak in a way that Cor had never heard before.
After several attempts, his father gave up and sank back to the floor. He lay on his back, panting. Cor squatted down next to him. The wind picked up, spitting snow through the cracks between the weathered planks. He shivered. He felt his dad shivering, too, eyes closed. Blood continued to seep from the wound and darkened the soil around him.
“Dad, what do I do?” No answer. Cor leaned closer. “Dad?” He pressed his forehead against his father, the old gesture. “Wake up. Please.” He slumped back, longing for Max’s warm coat. Max made him think of Shay. I wish she were here. She could help Dad—“Oh!”
He fumbled in his rear pocket. Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. With trembling fingers, he unfolded it.