by Darby Kaye
Shay’s cell phone number leaped out at him.
Jumping to his feet, he bolted for the doorway, then skidded to a halt. What if they’re still out there? Like a trick. Hugging the doorframe, he peeked out.
Snow ghosted around the empty yard in mini-tornados, the wind struggling to find its way through the surrounding trees. Tire tracks from the Hummer were already half-hidden. Taking a deep breath, Cor ran to the cabin and crept along its side, legs muscles quivering. He peered around the next corner. Their truck and camper sat by themselves in the front yard.
Holding tight to the paper, he ran to the passenger’s side of the truck, climbed inside, and began digging in the glove box for their seldom-used cell phone. Finding it under a bunch of napkins his father stored there in case of Cor’s notorious motion sickness, he pulled it out.
He flipped it open and sat looking at it, studying the buttons, then the paper. He punched the numbers into the keypad. Nothing. He frowned, summoning up the memory of his dad flipping it open the few times he had used it; the man’s thumb pressing the… “Green means go,” he whispered to himself. He held the green button. The screen lit up, followed by the words “No Signal.”
He dialed Shay’s number anyway.
No. Signal.
Remembering his father’s solution, he kicked the door ajar and stood on the seat, the phone held as high as he could into the air. Squinting through the growing storm, he looked up at the screen. “Yes!” Using the open door like a ladder, he clambered onto the hood of the truck, his shoes slipping on the wet metal. Sitting down for traction and ignoring the cold damp seeping into his jeans, he dialed again.
A pause, then: “Shay Doyle.”
For a moment, Cor couldn’t speak. The sound of Shay’s faint voice made him want to start bawling like some crybaby. He punched his thigh to get his emotions under control. “S-Shay?”
“Cor? Cor, is that you? I can barely hear you.”
“Dad’s hurt. Can you come—”
“Cor, you’re breaking up. Did you say Bann’s hurt?” Her voice faded in and out. The wind didn’t help either, whistling in his ear. “…where…are you?”
“In the mountains.” He tried to remember the wooden sign at the gas station. “Badger something.”
“…Basin? Did you say Badger Basin?”
“I think. We’re by a cabin. There’s trees and…”
A few sputters of static. Cor rose to his knees, then listened. “Shay?” He closed the phone, then opened it again and dialed once more. Nothing.
Tears prickled his eyelids. He looked around. The snow, blowing at an angle from the west, blotted out all but the nearest trees. Teeth chattering, he clambered back down. Dropping into the cab, he leaned over and grabbed the keys, then hurried to the camper. His cold fingers fumbled as he tried to unlock the door, dropping the keys twice. “Son of a bitch,” he swore in an unconscious imitation of Bann. Finally unlocking it, he heaved himself inside, eschewing the steps.
The camper was cold. And empty. And not-home. Not that it had ever been home.
Dad was home.
Locating his heavier winter jacket, he pulled it on, then tugged the cover free from his bunk. Hugging the bundle to his chest, he jogged around the cabin, slowing as he approached the shed. What if Dad is… Before the rest of the thought could take root, he shook his head and forced his feet to walk inside. The rise and fall of his father’s chest made his knees weak. “Dad? I called Shay. I don’t know if she heard me.” He draped the blanket over the man.
No answer. Not knowing what else to do, Cor crawled under with his dad.
He screamed when a wet tongue dragged along his cheek. Lashing out with fists and feet, frantic to keep the hands from touching him again, he struck something solid. A yelp.
“Hey, there. Easy now, Cor.”
He blinked. Two figures squatted next to him. Confusion and a desperate hope made his movements clumsy as he struggled with the blanket. “Shay?”
“It’s me, kiddo.”
Shay had one arm wrapped around Max’s neck, struggling to keep him from licking Cor again. She let go of the dog and began freeing him from the blanket. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”
Cor noticed for the first time the rest of the shed was empty. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s in the car already.”
Struggling to stand with the cover around his ankles and an excited dog circling about, Cor asked, “Is he okay?”
Shay hesitated. “He will be.”
With unspoken agreement, they left the blanket behind. Side by side, and with Max bounding ahead, they hurried across the yard and around to the front of the cabin. Snow covered the ground, as if nature was trying to hide what had happened in the shed. Cor saw drops of blood scattered along their path, intermingling with a multitude of footprints of different sizes. One set seemed to drag through the snow. The Healer’s hand around his felt warm and strong and made him want his dad so much his chest ached like someone had hit it with a sledgehammer. Or a club.
Shay’s SUV was parked next to their truck. Both vehicles’ engines were running. As they drew closer, one of the younger Knights from Shay’s party jumped out of Bann’s truck.
“I’ll follow you with Bann’s rig,” said the young man, his red hair a flame in the dusk, “but keep an eye on your rearview mirror in case this storm proves too much for it—the tires are iffy at best.”
“We will. And don’t take any chances, Rory.”
With that, Shay opened the back door of her own vehicle. “Be careful of your dad, Cor.”
Cor peered inside. Bann was propped against the far door, legs half off the seat and a blanket tucked around him. One eye was swollen into a slit. Bruises and blood distorted his features. But a faint smile ghosted across his face. He pulled an arm free and stretched out a hand to Cor.
Mindful, Cor climbed in and knelt on the floor. He took his father’s hand and held on as they lurched along the driveway back to the road. He didn’t mind the pain when Dad squeezed his hand at every bump. From the front seat, he could hear Shay talking softly to Hugh Doyle, who was driving. In the cargo area in the back, Max sat bolt upright, tongue lolling out and tail thumping every time Cor looked at him.
Reaching the highway, Hugh stopped at Shay’s command as they waited for Rory to catch up. She glanced back. “Seatbelt, buddy.”
Cor shook his head. “I wanna stay with Dad.”
“You will be. But I want you in the seat, not on the floor.”
“Cor.” Bann’s voice was a whisper. “Mind Shay.”
The rest of the drive seemed to take forever as he sat by Bann’s feet, one hand splayed on his father’s leg. Snow flowed past the windows in horizontal streams. The warmth from the heater made his eyelids droop. He fought the lure of sleep, certain that if he closed his eyes—ceased his vigilance—they would be waiting for him. He scrubbed a fist across his face, wincing when he aggravated the cut by his eye; he could still feel the burn of the knife tip.
My fault. Self-loathing washed over him like a mounting fever. For not listening to his father and for leaving the store. For getting captured. For being the bait. For letting those creatures touch him and hurt him. The stench of the Fir Bolgs still lingered on Cor’s hands and clothing. He shuddered. If it wasn’t for me, none of this would’ve happened. He looked over at his father. Bann’s eyes were closed. One hand was fisted in the blanket, the knuckles white where they weren’t split.
A warm breath and a wet nose on the back of his neck made him jump. Twisting around, he wrapped an arm around Max. The dog leaned over the seat and draped his head over Cor’s shoulder, muzzle resting on the boy’s chest.
Cor buried his face in the dog’s ruff. “S’my fault,” he whispered, grateful for a chance to confess.
Max let out a long sigh in disagreement.
13
BANN GRITTED HIS TEETH. The agony grew with every minute and with every jolt of the vehicle as it rolled along the highway
. He wondered at the pain. I’ve been in a fair number of brawls, and have even been stabbed before, but it never felt like this. Fire seemed to eat at his insides—he wouldn’t have been surprised to see smoke rising out from under the blanket from the wound. He tried to stifle a groan when they hit a frost heave, hoping the howl of the storm and the rumble of the engine hid the sound.
Apparently, they did not.
“Here.” Shay reached back and handed him a metal SIGG bottle, its cap removed. “Sláinte nettle tea. Drink it all if you can.”
He fumbled for it, almost dropping it before he could raise it to his lips with a shaky hand. Most of it splashed down his chin. What the hell is wrong with me? He gave up and rested the brew on his chest. His gaze drifted to the boy dozing by his feet. Oh, Cor. Guilt made him want to slam the bottle into his face.
“Hold on.” Shay clambered between the seats.
Scrunching down on the floor beside him, she took the bottle from him and held it to his lips. Each bump and sway of the vehicle dribbled more of the brew on him than in him. With Shay’s help, he managed to gulp down a few decent mouthfuls before shaking his head in refusal.
“How…how did…” His voice didn’t want to seem to work.
“How did we find you?” Shay nodded toward Cor. “He managed to get a call to me. Said you were in a cabin near Badger Basin, so we drove the roads with the windows open, hoping Max would catch a scent of Cor. And he did.” The dog raised his head at the mention of his name.
“Clever dog,” Bann murmured.
“Bann?” Shay glanced over at Cor, then leaned closer and whispered. “What happened?”
As he spoke, rage at himself for not protecting his son shredded him. He relished the pain when another lurch sent a fresh round of white-hot agony thrumming through his body. No more than I deserve.
After he finished speaking, Shay laid a hand on his blanketed arm. “I know what you’re thinking, Bann. And it’s bullshit. You’re sitting there beating yourself up over this, but it won’t help Cor and it won’t help you heal. Guilt’s a crappy, useless emotion. Not when there’s a better one.”
“Which is?”
“Revenge. Cold, calculating, Celtic revenge.” For a moment, Bann saw the Knight in the Healer’s expression. “No gods-be-damned monsters mess with us, especially not with our children. So, as your Healer, I order you to focus on getting well, or we Doyles aren’t going to leave you any Fir Bolgs to rip apart.”
In spite of the horror of the past six hours, Bann smiled briefly. He could almost hear the voice of his old master in his head.
Vengeance, not remorse, Bannerman Boru. ‘Tis the Tuatha Dé Danaan way. Ye cannot remake the past, but ye can rule this day.
How, master?
Why, by the strength of yer arm, the sharpness of yer blade, and yer clan at yer back.
Bann nodded, both to Shay and to the Knight who had trained him. “Who am I to argue with my Healer?”
“Smart man.” Shay patted him. “Speaking of which…” She reached for the blanket. “Let me take another look at that wound.”
He watched as she folded the blanket to one side. He recalled earlier when she had unzipped his jeans to examine him without so much as a by-yourleave. Easing off the blood-soaked cloth taped to the wound just above his hipbone, she frowned as she studied the injury. “Do you remember what kind of weapon they stabbed you with?”
“I think…I think one of them had an antler prong.” Another bounce made him gasp as the agony flared. This time, it didn’t fade. Each thump of his heart was a sharp nail in his side.
“It does look more like a puncture than a slash.” She wetted the rag with the remainder of the brew and held it against Bann’s wound for a few minutes, then removed it. “It’s not working like it should.”
Her voice seemed to come from farther away. Darkness gathered at the edge of his vision. Through the pain, he heard Shay speaking, a frantic note in her voice. He wanted to respond, but his tongue couldn’t remember how to work.
The last thing he heard was Shay yelling at Hugh to drive faster.
Fire ate at his insides. Or was it that someone had heated an iron poker and stuck it inside the wound—twisting and twirling the white-hot metal, as if trying to roast his innards while they were still inside of him.
Hands jostled him, forcing him to stand upright and put one foot in front of the other. How can I walk while on fire? Bann’s thoughts drifted around like smoke. Can’t they smell the stink of burning flesh? And where is Cor? Something about his son ate at his heart worse than the internal flames.
More jostling. A dog barking. Cor’s voice, teary and pleading. He fell back on something soft. His clothes were tugged off. Cold air on his naked body made his teeth ache. Or maybe that was because they were chattering so hard. Something wet splashed along his side and hip, and trickled down the crease between thigh and groin. Any lower and I would have thought I pissed myself. A voice kept saying his name, ordering him to wake up, Boru—you’re not pulling that shit with me. He tried to, but it seemed like too much bleedin’ work. In fact, sleep beckoned, whispering its siren call.
He went in search of it.
Perched on the edge of the mattress, Shay sighed in relief as she finished taping a fresh bandage over Bann’s wound. Feeling the tension of the last hour in her neck and back, she stood up, careful not to jostle her sleeping patient, and stretched. “Well, the bleeding’s finally stopped.”
“A near thing.” Hugh hovered nearby. “Boru was fortunate to have you as his Healer.”
“Whist.” She waved away the compliment, secretly pleased. “Thank the gods the knife, or the prong, or whatever they used, didn’t hit anything vital.” After wringing out a cloth that was soaking in a bowl of sláinte nettle brew, Shay began dabbing the dried blood off his face. He’s lucky he’s still got all his teeth, she thought, examining the bruises. She ran a finger along his nose. Not broken, but it was at some point in his life, noting the slight telltale bump. Remembering the party, she snorted. Not surprising.
Tossing the cloth into the garbage bag Hugh had fetched earlier, she straightened. She held her bloodstained hands away from her while she studied Bann. His face was pale except for the flush of color on his cheekbones. “Wish I knew what’s causing his fever.”
“Perhaps the Fir Bolg’s weapon?” Hugh passed her a damp washrag. “For your hands.”
“Maybe.” She wiped her fingers and palms somewhat clean and deposited the cloth with the others. Pulling the covers higher, she tucked them around his shoulders and under his chin, resisting the unexpected urge to brush his hair off his forehead. Not with Hugh there. “Where’s Cor, by the way?” Her heart tugged when she recalled the boy standing forgotten in the corner, white-faced and trembling, while Shay and Hugh labored over Bann. It was Rory who had finally coaxed the boy out of the room, Max on their heels.
“In the living room with Rory.”
Gods. Shay clenched her jaw, recalling Bann’s description of what the Fir Bolgs had done to the boy. Fantasizing about pouring gasoline on those monsters and setting them afire, she started to pack up the medical supplies she had placed on the wooden chair her uncle had dragged over for her.
“Here, lass.” Hugh stopped her. “Let me do that. Go see to the boyo.”
With a nod of thanks, Shay left. She made a detour to her bedroom, taking time to change her shirt and do a more thorough scrubbing. The simple pleasure of warm water and the scent of the honeysuckle soap eased her stress.
Always remember, said the voice of her old mentor and master Healer in her head, family members do not need to see their loved ones’ blood on yer hands or clothing. Nor do they need to see ye looking disheveled and anxious. Tidy yerself if ye can and be composed. After splashing cold water on her face, she patted it dry, then brushed and retied her hair into a ponytail. After practicing a reassuring expression in the mirror, she headed to the living room.
Cor was sitting on the hearth with Max’s h
ead on his lap, gaze fixed on the hallway. Flecks of dried blood freckled his right eye and cheek. He scrambled to his feet when Shay appeared. “Is he okay? Can I see him?” She noticed he kept one grimy hand on Max’s neck, fingers buried in the dog’s thick ruff.
“You bet. He’s asleep right now, which is good.” She put out a hand when he started around her. “Whoa. Let me take a look at that eye before you—”
“No. I wanna see Dad first.”
The stubborn jut of his jaw was so Bann that Shay almost smiled. Almost. Deciding not to perish on that particular mountain, she stepped to one side. “Okay. For just a moment, then it’s your turn. Deal?”
“Deal.” Cor darted around her and disappeared. Shay started to follow when the clink and clatter from the kitchen pulled her head around.
Rory was busy at the counter, making sandwiches. Or rather, making towering stacks of random foods, using what appeared to be the entire contents of Shay’s refrigerator. Pausing from slapping horseradish sauce on a slab of ham, he looked over. “Thought everyone might be hungry.”
“Meaning you?”
Rory shrugged. “I could eat a bite, now that you mention it.” He waggled the knife at her. “And Hugh said to make sure you eat, too. We all know how you neglect yourself when you’ve got a patient under your care. Two patients, now,” he amended. He shooed her away. “Go do your Healer stuff, little cousin. And tell Hugh and Cor I’ll have supper ready in a few more minutes.”
Damn, but I love my family. Shay strolled back to the guest room. The affection intensified when she spotted Hugh sitting next to the bed, speaking softly to Cor perched on the edge of the mattress. Max sat at guard, his muzzle resting on the boy’s thigh.
“Now, cease fretting, lad. Your da’s going to be right as rain. Why, Shay Doyle is one of the finest Healers I’ve known. And I’ve known quite a few in my time.”
Cor nodded, eyes locked on the motionless figure. He sniffed, then swiped at his face, wincing when he broke open the gash again. A smear of blood decorated his cheek like war paint.