by Darby Kaye
After relieving himself, Bann readjusted the towel and stepped around Cor to the sink. He examined his face. “It looks worse than it feels,” he said, catching the boy’s grimace in the mirror.
“I hope so. Are you done? Because I gotta go, too. And I’m not supposed to leave you by yourself.” Something in his tone reminded Bann of Elizabeth when she was in one of her bitchy moments. Moments that had become more and more frequent as the years went on. Along with the fights, which were mostly over Cor and how to raise him.
“I’ll clean up a bit, then.”
Bann dampened a washcloth and began swiping away the leftover streaks of blood Shay had missed the night before. He idly glanced over when Cor lowered his pants to pee.
Bruises mottled the boy’s side.
Rage exploded in Bann’s chest. Lowering his head, he gripped the rim of the sink. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out from the craving to rip apart the Fir Bolg who had put those bruises on his son’s body.
On his child’s soul.
Clamping down on the fury, he sucked in a deep breath, then turned and leaned a hip against the counter. He waited until Cor finished his business and straightened his clothes. “Son. About last night…”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Cor flushed the toilet, apparently hoping to drown out his father’s words.
Bann waited until the whooshing subsided. A corner of his brain wondered if he should have chosen a better place and time to have this discussion. He plugged ahead, anyway. “I know you don’t. But what happened was not your fault.”
“Yeah, it was,” Cor whispered, almost to himself. “I should’ve stopped them.”
Oh, gods. “No, son. You did everything right.”
He shook his head, eyes locked on the towel rack. “You told me to wait in the store and I didn’t.”
“That does not matter. They were in the wrong to take you. And to touch you.” And they will pay for it.
A tear spilled over Cor’s cheek. He practically slapped it away, as if punishing himself. “I didn’t fight hard enough.”
The tear savaged Bann. “Ye did grand, boyo.” His own eyes burned. “Why, ye kept yer wits and saved us both.”
More tears made their escape. Cor gave up trying to stop them. “Th-ththey kept hitting me. They hurt me.”
Hating to ask, but knowing he was half-unconscious at the time, Bann steeled himself. “Did they touch your bottom?” Please. Please, not that.
“No, just my stomach and chest and sides. And one of them licked my ear.” Cor shuddered. He sank down on the edge of the tub and let out a shuddering breath, as if weak-legged from the relief of finally laying down the burden.
Lowering the lid on the toilet, Bann took a seat next to the boy, their knees bumping. For a long minute, they sat in silence.
Then Bann cleared his throat. “Ye said it was yer fault, but in fact, it was mine. I should have stopped them. I dinna fight hard enough.” He reached over and ran a thumb down Cor’s wet cheek. “But I promise ye, I will hunt them down and kill them.”
Cor nodded, lashes spiky with tears. Then, beyond all belief, he broke into a weak grin. “Okay, but I get first dibs.”
Unable to speak in the face of such grit, Bann pulled Cor over onto his lap, ignoring the stab of pain, and wrapped his arms around his son. The lump in his throat swelled larger when Cor buried his face in the junction between the man’s neck and shoulder. Slipping his hand inside the boy’s T-shirt, he stroked the bare back, relishing the feeling of skin, still baby-sweet, over growing bones. Cor nestled closer.
A tap on the door interrupted them.
“Everything okay in there?” Shay.
“Just finishing up,” Bann said hoarsely. He set Cor on the floor, then rose, gritting his teeth. “Do you want to stay in here a little while longer, son?”
“No, I’m good.” He squeezed around his father and stuck his mouth under the faucet for a gulp of water, then nodded as he wiped his chin. “Faugh a ballagh,” he added, squaring his shoulders.
My warrior son. Bann shook his head in relief and amusement. “That’s possibly the first time our battle cry has been sounded in a bathroom.”
“Just practicing. You know. For when we go hunt them down.”
“Shout away, then.” Opening the door, Bann paused at the sight of Shay standing in the hallway with a breakfast tray. “All is well,” he said to her questioning look.
Hitching the towel higher, he stepped past and slid under the covers. Cor and Shay bustled about, plumping pillows and placing the tray of toast and coffee and sliced melon on his lap. He nodded his thanks. “You offer fine service along with your healing, Shay Doyle. I could become used to this.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Okay, eat what you feel like, and then try to get some more sleep.”
Bann surprised himself by doing just that. When he awoke again, early evening filled the room with twilight shadows, the curtains still open. Through the open door, he could hear more than one voice speaking, half-muted by the rattle of dishes and glassware. He looked over at the whiffling sound coming from the other bed.
Cor slept sprawled on his back, mouth open and arms flung wide. A blanket was thrown over him and his shoes were on the floor between the beds. Max reclined next to him, taking up most of the bed. Spotting the man gazing at him, he thumped his tail.
Bann smiled at him. “A prince of a dog, to be sure,” he said in a quiet voice. Max’s muzzle parted in a doggy smile.
15
RUMMAGING THROUGH THE TINY pantry she had converted into an apothecary storeroom, Shay applauded herself once again for having the foresight to build floor-to-ceiling shelves on all three sides. With hardly any room for her to turn around in, the space was thick with the aroma of teas, healing plants in various stages of drying, bowls of desiccated animal parts, and one entire shelf dedicated to her stock of sláinte nettle leaves. Different-sized bottles, all with handwritten labels, stood in rows, waiting for orders.
Locating the small amber bottle of salve she had been searching for, the one that reduced scarring, Shay stepped back into the kitchen. “Guys, the pizza should be done any minute. Go ahead and eat while it’s hot. I want to check on Bann.” She headed for the guest room. Not wanting to wake man or boy, she tiptoed closer and peered inside.
Bann was standing in the middle of the room with his back to the door.
Naked.
He was lifting something from his bed. The diffused light from the living room defined his body in shades of pewter, like a charcoal sketch come to life. Shay eased away, but not before she noted the wide shoulders over narrow hips and rounded buttocks, the sculpted back and leg muscles. A few old scars here and there on his body only accented the fact that this was a man built for battle.
A rustle of clothing. A quiet hiss of pain.
It was that hiss that made Shay the Healer approach again, this time announcing her presence with a subtle throat clearing. She paused in the doorway. “Hey. You’re up.”
Dressed in jeans and a denim shirt only half on, Bann held a finger to his lips, then pointed at a sleeping Cor and a vigilant Max. She nodded. He joined her in the hallway, leaving the door ajar. “In case the hound wants out,” he whispered, buttoning his shirt.
Wishing he would leave it unbuttoned, Shay led the way to the kitchen. “Feeling up to some pizza and an informal meeting with Hugh and the boys?”
“Add a brew to the list and I’m your man.”
Okay, so not going there, Shay thought. “A Guinness, or something wimpy? And you’re only getting one with that much medicine in your system, so choose wisely.”
“Actually, I was hoping for more of the beer you served the other night. Chubby Wheel, was it?”
“You mean Fat Tire?” Shay turned her head in time to catch a glint of amusement in the Knight’s eye.
“The very same.”
They joined the others already eating. A pizza steamed in the middle of the kitchen table, along
with an assortment of beers. In the living room, a fire added to the warmth and coziness of the gathering. The scent of burning pine perfumed the air.
Spotting Bann, Hugh raised his glass. “Why, would you look at that? On death’s doorstep last night, and now he’s gracing the supper table.”
“That’s because I rock as a Healer.” Shay snagged a couple of beers from the refrigerator, opened them, and handed one to Bann. She pointed her bottle at a young man, a darker redhead than most of the Doyles, handsome with strong, even features and cropped hair, sitting between Hugh and Rory. “That’s Jameson.”
“Are you a cousin of Shay’s, too, Jameson?” Bann reached across the table to shake hands with the younger man before easing down on the chair with a grimace and a hitch of breath.
“I go by James.” He looked at Hugh. “And second cousin, isn’t it, Uncle?”
Hugh shook his head. “No, Rory’s your second cousin. Shay would be…” The older Knight closed one eye in concentration. “I have no idea. But it doesn’t matter.” He beamed around the table. “We’re all Doyles.”
“So, you’re the descendent of Brian Boru.” Shaking his head, James snagged a slice of pizza out from under Rory’s hand with a grin. “Unreal. I’ve heard the tales all my life, but I never thought I’d get to meet the long-son. I thought I’d have to go to Ireland to do that.”
“Have you been to Éireann?” Bann selected a slice and dug in.
Mouth full, James shook his head and swallowed before speaking. “Not yet. Maybe someday. A bunch of us want to do a family roots trip and all that.”
“Were you all born here, then?” Bann looked in surprise at Hugh. “I thought from your accent that…”
Hugh nodded in understanding. “While this mob,” he waved around the table, “are all children of twentieth-century America, Ann and I, along with the older Doyles, journeyed here roughly the same time you did.” He sighed, examining the label of his bottle. “Difficult years those were, for Irish immigrants, be we Fey or mortal. These young ones”—he gestured around the table—“do not know how soft they have it.”
Rory snorted. “Look who’s talking.”
Hugh’s beard bristled. “I’ll have you know Ann and I struggled—”
“Hey, you don’t have to justify your wealth to us.” James tossed a crust of pizza to Max, who had joined them. The dog’s teeth snapped together as he caught it in midair. Ignoring Hugh’s glare, he explained. “See, Bann, decades ago, our uncle made a smart investment with some guy named Buffett and made a buttload of money—”
“Your tongue flaps too much, boyo,” Hugh growled. “There’s no need to—”
“Not Buffett the parrot head guy from Florida,” Rory interrupted. “The Buffett from Omaha.”
“That’s right,” James said. “So, now Hugh and Ann are richer than—ow!” He winced when his uncle smacked him on the back of the head.
“Enough! Bragging about the wealth of one’s family is vulgar, Jameson Doyle.” Hugh shook his finger in his nephew’s face. He turned back to Bann. “Now, as I was saying. Over the years, other clans joined us. Some to hunt the Amandán dwelling in the abandoned gold mines west of the city. Or, in case of the Black Hand, for revenge.”
Bann choked on his beer. “The Black Hand is here? In High Springs?
“Aye, he is,” Hugh said. “Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. Gideon Lir’s lineage is even more ancient than my own. He is supposedly one of the finest Knights and greatest goblin hunters alive.” He looked at Shay. “I take it he is the arrogant son of a bitch you spoke of earlier?”
Shay nodded absently. The image of Bann naked seemed flash-burned on her retina. It was different from last night when she had labored over his bloody form. Very. Different. In fact, she found herself studying the shape of his mouth as he spoke, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by that mouth.
Her eyes drifted up to catch Bann studying her right back.
Something flashed between them.
And was promptly interrupted by Max rearing up and planting his front paws on the table, snapping at the pepperoni Rory waved in front of his snout. The table shook from the force of the eighty-plus-pound dog. Hugh, James, and Bann rescued their drinks just in time, Bann grabbing Shay’s as well.
She jumped to her feet, half-grateful and half-furious at the interruption. “Max, no! Bad dog!” She pushed him away. “Rory, knock it off! Jeez, it’s like Friday night in a frat house.”
“How would you know what a Friday night is like in a frat house?” James asked.
She ignored him. “Who wants another beer?” She turned to Bann, who had risen gingerly with a wince. “What?” She blinked in surprise when he took her elbow.
“I’ll fetch and carry.” He pulled out the chair and guided her back to her seat. “You’ve done enough.”
She ignored James and Rory nudging each other as Bann moved about the kitchen, opening bottles and tossing a doggy treat to Max. Warmth—okay, let’s be honest, heat—filled her belly. When she reminded her body that Bann was both a guest and a patient, she was met with a so what? Movement out of the corner of her eye pulled her head around.
Cor appeared, rumpled from sleep and yawning so widely, Shay was sure his ears would end up in his mouth. Without a word, he sank down in the chair next to her and reached for a slice. “Who’s that?” he asked around a mouthful of pizza, pointing his chin at James.
“My cousin, James.”
Cor’s eyes widened. “How many cousins do you have?”
“Too many. Want one?”
Cor chewed as he pondered, eyeing the young men who looked on in amusement. After a minute, he shook his head. “Nah. But I’ll take Max.”
“Good choice, young Cor,” Hugh boomed over the laughter. “You’ve picked the best of the litter.”
Bann joined them, handing around drinks before nudging his son off the chair to reclaim his seat. He started to pull Cor onto his lap, then froze, face pale. “Son of a…” He bit off the rest of the sentence.
“Yup. That’ll teach you.” Shay pointed at his stomach. “Dude, you’ve got a hole in your side.” Before he could protest, she pushed an empty chair closer to Bann with her foot. “Sit here, buddy.”
“Yeah, really,” Cor grumbled. “Only babies sit on laps.” He began hammering down on another slice, slapping away his father’s hand when Bann tried to steal a mushroom.
Fifteen minutes later, after the pie was demolished, the crusts tossed to an ever-accommodating Max, and a sleepy Cor ordered back to bed, the Knights gathered around the fire, empty tumblers in hands, eager for a bit of a treat Hugh had promised. While Bann took a careful seat on one end of the sofa, Shay chose the chair nearby.
Hugh returned from his truck, a bottle in one hand and a folder in the other. “While I know it is Scottish whisky, I take it no one here would pass up a taste from our Celtic brothers?” He held a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet. At the hearty response of hell, no, he unscrewed the cap and began pouring. He paused when he came to Bann. “Should you be drinking something this strong? Healer? What say you?”
“He may have a sip, no more.”
Bann cocked a brow. “Really.”
Shay cocked one right back. “Yes, really. My patient. My house. My rules.”
Hugh finished pouring and joined them. “Now to business. I’ve done a bit of research.” He pulled out several sheets of papers covered in old-fashioned penmanship no longer taught in public schools and placed them on the coffee table. “I’ve good news and bad.”
“Bad news. Always with the bad news.” Rory complained. “And why can’t it just be here’s the good news? Like, here’s how we kill our enemy. We go kill him. Bam—we’re done. Then we go get Chinese or something?”
“Because this is reality, not fantasy,” Shay pointed out. “Fantasy would go like this—the hero overcomes the monster after beating incredible odds, he woos the girl, they fall in love, and they live happily ever af
ter.” She swirled the drink in her hand, studying the amber liquid. “Real life is never that way. Real life is confusing. And messy. And painful. And too many good people get serious crap dumped on them.” The thought of Cor, huddled on the filthy floor of that shack, his face aged by what had happened to him and his father, made her want to whip out her weapon and start a-swinging.
“I disagree, Shay Doyle.” Bann’s voice took on a strange tone. “More than not, reality is finer than we could ever dream.”
“Dude, you did not just say that.” Rory shook his head. “Man, if I said that to a girl, she would laugh in my face.”
Bann shrugged and took a sip. “Aye, she would. But not for the line,” he said with a deadpan expression. The others exploded with laughter, Hugh almost choking on his drink.
After it died down, Hugh raised his glass. “Well struck, Boru.”
Shay silently agreed.
Setting down his drink, her uncle picked up the top sheet of paper from the pile. “First of all, the Horned One is an elder god. Which means he cannot abide iron. That be the good news, albeit old news.”
“And the bad news?” Rory asked.
“In all the accounts I’ve read, it has been repeated, in various ways, that”—he looked down at the page in his hand and quoted—“‘only with iron blade wielded by noble blood will the Stag Lord be vanquished.’ The translations vary, but not by much.”
Rory held up his hand and ticked off on his fingers. “Iron blade plus noble blood equals dead crazy god. Got it.”
“‘Noble blood,’” Shay mused. “Well, that’s got to mean Bann.”
“Or Cor,” James pointed out. “And why does he want the boy, anyway?” He scribbled in a small notebook as he spoke.
“Seriously?” Rory peered over James’s shoulder. “You’re taking notes?”
“I do not know why he desires the lad,” Hugh said. “Yet. But while Bann recovers, the rest of us need to find Cernunnos’s lair. It must be close by, mostly likely in the park itself, since the Fir Bolgs came to Shay’s on foot. Unlike the god, the Fir Bolgs are no astral plane travelers. By the way, I’ve brought you something, Bann.” He leaned back and dug his keys out of his pocket.